


A Haunting Reflection

by KaibaSlaveGirl34



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Community: comment_fic, Dreams, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Inspired by Dreams, Mystery Stories, Storytelling, Wordcount: Over 20.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaibaSlaveGirl34/pseuds/KaibaSlaveGirl34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted; for even with a prospect as cruel as death drawing near, a darker fate lies with a single choice alone, and of a ghost, who refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invocations of the Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harry2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harry2/gifts).



> Here's a new story called [A Haunting Reflection](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5441317/1/A_Haunting_Reflection). It belongs to my friend [Kittie Darkhart](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/153915/Kittie_Darkhart/) on FanFiction.Net.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission. --Kittie Darkhart.

London, England

October 1913

_'You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!'_ — Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, Chapter XVI

…

All brides, it is generally believed, are considered to be beautiful—if in their own, figurative way—as an occasion such as a wedding promotes only the beauties and pleasures of life, and not the horrible realities of heartbreak, death, and a very fragile understanding of what it is to be mortal. As all brides, both living and dead, have learned the painful truths of both—before and after their weddings—as a sharp tugging of the inevitable severs that thin, silver cord which binds both death and life into a single, fated strand of destiny. For like all superstitions, it said that, if a bride falls the day before she is to be married, then she will die within a year.

Wendy Darling had been no exception to that belief. Nor had her mother, or her grandmother, or the grandmother before her. No, the commonalities in birth, marriage, and death were as old and sacred as the churches that oversaw each stage in their towering monuments of stone. The age-old knowledge of the fates of those who entered beyond their sanctified thresholds would forever remain in secret until such was revealed upon the point of death. It was the same for all: a common-made ignorance instituted upon birth and a lifetime—however long or short it might be—filled with the eternal question of when the dance of life would end with the interception of death, as Heaven and Hell would be the next segment in an endless waltz of eternity. For those of the Catholic faith, there was Purgatory. For those of the dissenting Protestants, there was Judgment. As ghosts—those poor unfortunates, caught in between the realms of life and death—had no place to call their own. Priests lamented their unfortunate fate, as the devout were cautious not to fall into such a terrible state. As those trapped were thus condemned to walk the Earth, forever seeking that which they could never attain in life as they wandered the shaded paths of hopelessness, forever lost, and forever alone.

"As that, my brothers, is the fate of those who fail to go sleep after Nana has put them abed!" teased a very insightful Wendy. She almost laughed at the multitude of chagrined expressions—eight, to be precise—of her wakeful audience. The story had been told for the night, the need for sleep and dreams already well past its appointed time. And yet, the eagerness in wanting Wendy to continue with the story impelled their desperation to keep her close, as it was the eldest of her brothers who spoke for their discontent:

"But it is not yet midnight," protested a very critical John, who, now at the important age of fifteen, had acquired a most cynical view of the world, and who, also now, with his brow furrowed in consternation, took on the appearance of the grow-up John he would soon come to be. Wendy almost sighed at the certainty of it, when she heard him continue in his methodical reasoning on why she should finish the story.

John huffed at her continued silence. "You cannot simply end the story like that for the night, you know. It is simply not done." His spectacled eyes darkened in irritation. "You are gifted in your storytelling, dear sister, but you are not a Scheherazade, and we are not your enslaved Shahryars, waiting for a thousand and one nights for a story to be at its conclusion. We should like to know how it ends, Wendy. For whose is the fate, to walk that lonely road between death and mortality, searching for what he can never find? You must tell us!"

"Yes, do tell us!" many of the Lost Boys, including her brother, Michael, chimed in eagerly. "Who is it, Wendy? Who must forever be lost in his own self-despair? He must have a name."

But Wendy only gave them a sympathetic smile. "That I cannot tell you," she replied gently, almost sadly, "for even I do not know. I am afraid I have no name for which to give you, as the dead remain silent in their secrets. They impart precious little to those living. I suppose that is why they haunt us so; they are unable to tell us the reason for their continued existence in between worlds. As their business—whatever it must be—is theirs to conclude, something terribly left undone in life."

Michael beamed at the dark possibility of it. "Do you believe in ghosts, Wendy?" he asked, his bright blue eyes widening in curiosity. "John says he doesn't."

The brother in question snorted, his sardonic expression matching his disappointment. "I said I've not seen one to give me cause to believe in it," said he in his defence. "And I doubt Wendy believes in such rubbish, either. After all, we are much too grown up to believe in a handful of faerie stories and old women's superstitions."

Wendy could only smile at her brother's bold assertion of her, that puffed-up chest of his reminding her greatly of their father. "Believe as you will, John," returned she, calmly. "But have you forgotten that we have also seen faeries and mermaids and flying boys, who remain eternally young and beautiful? Why should ghosts be any less than real to us? For even though I have yet to encounter one, I shall not discount their existence—not yet, anyway!" she mirthfully vowed.

"But isn't it bad luck to see one—a ghost, I mean?" questioned a pensive Nibs, who had remained, until now, silent throughout their discourse. He failed to acknowledge that no one, except Wendy, believed in the things she had claimed they had seen in their youth—most especially that of the mythical flying boy, Peter Pan—whereas ghosts…were another matter entirely.

Dark eyes countered his green ones, as that thoughtful expression—which only belonged to his sister and former mother—answered him, even before the words left those lovely, soft-spoken lips. Wendy regarded him in silence, her eyes darkening to that of obsidian. "I suppose that depends heavily on the ghost," she answered quietly, enigmatic in her response.

But the boys accepted her answer, nodding their heads as they did so. They could do no less, for not even they fully understood the complexities in haunting the living; they barely grasped what it was to be alive, let alone attain a vast knowledge of what it was to actually be dead. They had seen death, yes, even if they could scarcely remember those dark times in the Neverland, when they were more than merely boys.

Wendy gave pause at the thought. For none of her brothers—including Michael, whose wide-eyed innocence would have assuredly protested otherwise—were without blood on their hands. They had watched a grown man die, after all—had celebrated it, even—as many of Hook's crew had fallen to those deceptively innocent, childlike hands. Just as their captain's death, in falling prey to the one thing he had feared most in life, his own timepiece drawing down to its final hour before its ticking ceased and silence followed thereafter, drew a sense of guilt for the tragedy it had been.

It was seldom that he was even remembered, since Wendy rarely ever thought of the dreaded Captain James Hook, though she had never forgotten him as the others had—as Peter, himself, had guiltlessly done. She could not. She doubted she would ever forget even one so wicked and maladjusted as her former captor. She frowned. She dared not remember her time in the Jolly Roger's hold; it would prove to be too much for the night, as her heart still ached for the one responsible for ending the miserable captain's life…

Whispering 'good-night', as was her nightly custom, and giving a kiss to each forehead—albeit a few drew out affront in their mock-protest of her sisterly affections—Wendy left her brothers for the night. She almost smiled when she heard them whisper amongst themselves, undoubtedly plotting some brilliant scheme to force her to reveal the identity of the tragic figure that had charmed them. Wendy could only sigh at their attempt, for she had not lied when she told them that she knew not the name of the ghost who had haunted their dark revelry. He could be anyone, she thought absently, before entering unto the sanctuary of her own room.

She vaguely took notice of it, with its humble furnishings and ridiculously vibrant floral wallpaper. It had been where her mother had entertained the notion of having her guests stay the night. And yet, books, both old and borrowed, had replaced the need for such idle pleasantries, as they inundated the empty space that might have, possibly, vacated a happy couple. Though in spite of the room's only occupant, it was a space that was well-loved for its variety—the winding labyrinth of domino-stacked books the greatest comfort of all. Wendy smiled at the sight of her silent companions, finding a sense of comfort amid their dusty pages. They were all she had in the lonely hours from dark to daylight, as her brothers, dear as they were to her, would soon end their Christmas furlough, and would thus return to their school, where they would again dwell among those hallowed halls of an influential Harrow.

Wendy envied them greatly for it—being a boy, that was—and therefore being afforded the chance to learn new and exciting things. Though yet, no matter her resentment towards the unfairness made upon those considered the fairer sex, she did not begrudge her brothers for their good fortune; no, in her heart, she was glad of their education, but sorely regretted that she, a mere girl, could not join them. For the stories they told her, of the goings on among their fellow schoolmates, made her heart genuinely ache for something she could never have. All that instead remained for her was that of a girl's finishing school, with its long tedious hours of needlepoint, corsets, which constricted her breathing, and the seemingly endless foray of learning all of the rules and proper etiquette of what it was to be a respectable, well-bred, young lady. _All of this, so that I might marry properly,_ she thought bitterly, and her placid expression soured by the prospect of marriage.

A groan escaped her, and she looked down at the cold, wooden floor in unwilling defeat. _It is much too soon for me._

And indeed, perhaps it was. For being well nigh close to her seventeenth birthday, she was already near the age expected of her finding a suitor, one whom might, eventually, become her husband. She dreaded it, however—dreaded it even more than almost being forced to walk the plank, with the fear of a hungry crocodile lingering underneath, its jaws opened wide in grave anticipation, savouring the thought of its forthcoming meal, digesting the image of flesh and bone being crushed under two sharp rows of merciless teeth, crying crocodile tears for a pitiful scream, loving it, nurturing it, demanding it, waiting for her…

Her eyes widened at the dark imagery that she reserved only for her nightmares. The fear she once had of that wretched creature had not left her; she doubted it ever would—even when another had taken her place, among it cavernous jaws. Shaking her head at the fate she had mercifully eluded, she could at least thank God that her parents, good-intentioned as they indelibly were over her wellbeing, had not yet thrust her into the arms of a nameless stranger. She could rarely, at times, understand her own schoolmates, who prattled on about what they wanted in a match, as money and a position in society were paramount, in their long list of requirements in choosing a potential husband. None had ever mentioned their simply marrying for love, something in which her own parents—to the dismay of the families of her mother and father—had done.

Of course, marriage itself was a very delicate subject, when discussed in the presence of her family; for Wendy knew that, to marry for something deemed as vulgar and disingenuous as love, would only add to the already tarnished, Darling name. She would therefore be expected to marry into a decent, respectable family, and not for what she, herself, truly wanted in a match—not if her Aunt Millicent had anything to say of it—as it was simply not expected that she would ever confine herself to something that was as infrequent and was, just as sadly, as unreliable as love—not when her heart already belonged to another…

She dared not imagine where her thoughts would continue to lead, had she allowed them, her fragile mind already left in shambles by the passing of another year—another year of her nearing the end of her own childhood—which would only emphasise the responsibility in her growing up. Sighing at the cruel inevitability of her unwanted fate, she instead looked to the window, that vain hope in seeing one among the midnight skies darkening to the emptiness that lay between the stars. Another sigh escaped her, though Wendy continued in her silent vigil of the heavens, hoping, dreaming, half a thought away from opening the window, and… She vaguely noticed the faint scratching of something against the smooth, cold surface of something in the distance. A tree branch against the casement, perhaps.

Disregarding it, she made her way across the room, her bare feet lightly treading over the worn pink rug which she, as a child, had loved so much. Her Aunt Millicent hated it—despised its very existence. Indeed, the older woman thought it an affront to one whom she considered 'on the verge of womanhood', that she pleaded with Mr. and Mrs. Darling to have it removed from her sight. Wendy had merely humoured her aunt, by agreeing that it should be removed, though the rug, had nevertheless, remained, untouched, and exactly where its owner wanted it. _As here it shall stay,_ thought Wendy, a little primly. She almost grinned in her small triumph before ending her journey, the window—which held all within the realm of possibility—standing before her.

Wendy looked beyond it, those dark eyes ever searching beyond its stained-glass panes, ever fearing for that elusive figure, which could so easily slip from her memory as it had her brothers'.

"Oh, Peter," the words escaped her in a hushed whisper. Her face fell at the utterance of his name, the lines of a perpetual worry drawing heavily upon her face, and revealing only the care in her young age—since it was only those who have grown up, that knew the pains that often vex the human heart. And Wendy felt that troubled emotion, more than one so young should want. Her height and developing figure were evidence enough of it, though she had ignored the truth. She had been growing up without even intending it. _Perhaps it is why he will not come to me now. I am much too grown up for him,_ the miserable thought came to mind; and Wendy turned away, unable to bear the sky and all its terrible wonders a moment longer.

She instead returned to that of her books, her gaze falling upon each before looking upon the comforting length of her bed. She cast it a heartened look of admiration. It was nothing of great significance—certainly nothing as opulent or grandiose as her aunt's, which the older woman proudly related of it having been in her mother's family for generations. No, with its plain, mahogany-furnished frame and headboard, and equally plain white sheets, Wendy's bed was the model of any young woman's of her class. It was surely far from the bed that she once had in the nursery, the bed in which she had first encountered a boy with a missing shadow and learned to fly.

Mechanically, Wendy made her way to the bed, and folded back the sheets before getting in. She suppressed the need to look again at the window; she would only find herself disappointed by the nothingness she knew to be there. No, it was best not to think of it, since Peter had long been in absence for over a year, and spring-cleaning time was well past. It is winter, after all, she mildly considered, and set all thoughts of Peter and the Neverland aside, where, in their place, she maintained her need for a good night's rest, so that she might see her brothers—who, oddly enough, were apt to rise early, as their days at Harrow had indoctrinated in them—come morning. _Perhaps I shall be able to tell another story before breakfast._

The thought comforted her. Their very presence comforted her. And she almost smiled at the thought of them, and of the story she would tell them. She debated on whether to continue the story she had told them, of the wandering soul without a name to call his own, and her giving in to the temptation in granting him a name. But she shook her head at the notion, as it was then that she heard it: the scratch, scratch, scratching of something, sharp and metallic, against plated glass.

She nearly started, almost crying out in surprise, but then admonished herself. _Oh, stuff and nonsense, Wendy. You are behaving like a cowardy custard of a schoolgirl, without any wits about her! 'Tis merely a tree branch, scraping against the window, and nothing more._

She then made a face at her momentary fear, where she, as if to reaffirm herself of that self-made conviction, got up and made her way over to the window…and instantly frowned. For there was no tree branch, no idle burst of wind, which disturbed the casement—there was nothing scraping against the other windows, for that matter—when she stepped out, and looked for the likely culprit.

"How curious," Wendy murmured quietly, but then set her interest of it aside, no longer in the mood to discover the sound's origin. Honestly, I must refrain from telling stories of the supernatural so late at night. Otherwise, I shall have the same nightmares that Michael so often has, she tiredly mused, before returning to bed. She pulled the sheets around her, her senses already dulled by the need for sleep. She almost laughed, when she gave in to that necessity, as her breathing slowed to that of a gentle whisper, her eyes closing from a day's adventures in dancing and executing proper behaviour, whilst among her aunt's company.

And yet, the scratching had continued on, unabated, as it, if strangely, had heightened in its intensity.

_Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratchhhh._

Muttering in protest, Wendy opened her eyes, and frowned at its continued persistence. She knew it not to be at the window, though she could hardly think of where else it could be. She automatically ruled out the idea of Nana scratching against the wall, since such would not only be considered unprofessional, as Nana herself, would take great offence if suspected, but also unlikely. Perhaps it is a rat, she allowed herself to imagine, albeit reluctantly. She dreaded to consider the possibility of some horrid creature, running rampant behind the walls. But no, it was on glass. It was definitely on glass; there was no doubt of that.

But where?

The window was, relatively, the only sizeable thing made of glass in her room. And the sound was, in her room. Realisation suddenly dawned, and she gave an unladylike snort, before turning her gaze to the door.

Of all the tricks…How dare they?

Once more, she departed from the bed, her graceful footfalls almost inaudible against the wooden floor. She glowered at the door before her, those serene features, which many had praised so often in her company, and in equal measure, melding into a look of irritation. Quietly, however, she repressed any form of resentment, her hand idly resting on the doorknob. A grim smile pervaded her sharp expression before turning the knob and opening the door…

"Caught you!" she cried out, to what she believed to be her brothers, standing there, guilty, as they were caught in the act of frightening her…only to find nothing there, the hallway devoid of all of which she had expected.

What is this? Where were her brothers? John was certainly the one responsible for contriving such a clever trick. But then, one glance upon their sleeping figures proved the contrary, and Wendy was bewildered. Utterly. For if it had not been them responsible for the scratching upon her window, as she was now led to believe, then who…She could scarcely consider it. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it, for she had certainly heard it—whatever it was—keeping her awake. If only she could discern its origin…

She sighed in resignation, and thus returned to her room, brooding, considering. She had barely gotten into bed before hearing—what she believed to be—a laugh, almost soft and cruel in its projection, as it echoed in her thoughts. She faintly turned to the mirror hanging over her vanity, her reflection emulating her confusion. Dark eyes met hers in a single expression of thought, her face and body as white as the snow, which now fell from without. Her long, dark hair lay in tangles over her nightgown; a tousled, silken mass of sweat, pearls, and wrinkles, where only her lips—lips, as dark as blood—assured that she was still among the living, the kiss firmly tucked away in that alluring, right-hand corner of her mouth—a kiss…which had never been taken.

For in the mirror, Wendy saw the truth in her appearance: a veritable Snow White, caught adrift between two realms. For there she lay among the rushes, comatose, the waters of an indolent Lethe flowing over her listless shape. She floated like that of a tragic Ophelia: adorned in a funerary wreath of rosemary, remembering, dreaming, yearning to be awakened, waiting to be kissed…

She turned away from the mirror, and pulled the sheets closer, her face almost obscured by their comforting security. She compelled herself to close her eyes, and think only of happy thoughts, think of the Neverland, think of Peter—anything, that would distract her from the scratching which had, mercifully, stopped. She almost sighed in relief before something—which she would never, to the end of her days, forget—whispered her name:

_Wendy._

This time, she did not turn to look at the window. She did not look at anything, her eyes kept shut to the encroaching darkness which surrounded her. She could not hear its footsteps, though no less knew that it was with her, standing beside of her, and almost touching her with what she envisioned to be a pair of slender, twisting, spidery fingers. She steeled herself against their nebulous feel, since their presence seemed more to frighten her than to cause true harm. Her breathing quickened, her heart nearly bursting in anticipation as that unwanted presence lingered over her, hovering close to her shoulders and spine, those idle fingers drawing over her in mild curiosity, before claiming a lock of her hair for its own.

 _Wendy,_ it whispered again, this time next to her ear, its presence never leaving her, stroking that captive lock as it urged her to sleep.

She almost cried out at its soothing tone, feeling utterly desecrated by a voice—which she believed belonged to that of some nightmarish phantom—that had strangely released her hair from its imprisoning grasp, as shifted its massive frame on the bed—Wendy dared not look—behind her, and remained close. Tears brimmed along the corners of her closed eyes; for although Wendy remained outwardly defiant, wilful to the perversity which now drew near an unmarried woman—even if she believed it imaginary and merely curious of her—she knew it to be there, taunting her with its invisible company.

And yet, the reasonable part of her mind contested, it had only touched her shoulders and hair—nothing indecent, by any means—for even if she had wanted it to cease in its ministrations, she allowed it to remain, where she instead curled into that of a tiny ball, and prayed as it lay there and held her. _Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, please, please make it stop. Make it leave. Make it go away!_

But she received only silence as an answer, and she shuddered under the pitiful protection the sheets offered her, hoping that the dawn would soon come, and with it, the sun. Yes, with the morning, she believed, everything would be as it was, just as her present fears, would be nought but an anecdote, to be laughed at over breakfast.

 _Yes,_ she thought desperately, _with the morning, everything will be better._ But until then, she would sleep, and would thus dream of a boy whom she longed to see; and of a world without the horrible presence, which she still could not fathom, even in her dreams.

For whether it was by the mercy of some divine entity, or of her own, forced volition, Wendy fell into a restless slumber, where only nightmares and waking dreams plagued her for the rest of the night. As a voice—one of vague familiarity—continued to whisper her name, as well as a dark promise:

_Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…_

_Canst thou hear me?_

_…I am coming…_

_Wendy, Wendy…_

_…Darling._


	2. Half Mirrored Truths

The next morning could not have come any sooner, though it did not carry with it the light Wendy had hoped to see. Instead she had to content herself with dark-grey skies, a cold winter wind, and a dismal London, bathed in a thick blanket of ice and snow. The streets had already been corrupted by the bustling movement of those from without, as the snow-white beauty of the city’s cobblestone paths had darkened to a dirty black hue, slushy and soiled by the imprint of tires and footprints. The city itself had appeared a tragic mess, compared to the silent wonder witnessed only the previous night.

And yet, the dawn itself had not been as breathtaking or memorable as those of previous dawns—most particularly, those which foretold the comings and goings of a certain inhabitant from a distant Neverland—but had no less been welcomed all the same.

Wendy’s disappointment was of little consequence, however, for the morning had nevertheless come for her—the light of day existing beyond the sky’s dull overcast. She had even welcomed it, when she braved leaving the sanctuary of her bed and stood before the window in her room. She had even closed her eyes, and absorbed whatever few, rays of light that pierced through the grey obscurity. She had even smiled, albeit a faint one. The sunlight had been as precious to her as faerie dust.

For even with the absence of light, Wendy felt safe regardless, when the early morning hours had come, the gentle tolling of a distant Big Ben comforting her after a night of wakeful dreams. She instantly frowned, and closed her troubled eyes. A single tear fell, her mind in tatters. She dared not consider what had transpired in the bed. She dared not recall the shadows encircling the room, closing in around her, taunting her, laughing, before consuming her. She dared not remember the terror she felt when the darkness whispered her name, or the relentless scratching which had accompanied it. Though most of all, she dared not bear in mind the memory of the arms which had held her, arms which she reluctantly found both terrifying and strangely comforting in the same instance. _It was as if they had wanted to both possess and protect me._ She abruptly disregarded the thought. For whatever had held her—if something had indeed done so, as her imagination was wont to believe—then it had departed with the morning light.

The whispered utterances of her name had faded along with the shadows. The scratching had ceased. That cold form of nothingness, which had lain next to her, returned to oblivion. All that remained had been that of an eerie silence, sacred, reverent, almost holy. _For after all, is the absence of light, not where all things considered dark and evil dwell?_ she questioned herself thoughtfully, her eyes opening once again to the world she beheld without.

She smiled again. For in the distance, the sun had managed to overcome its dreary adversary, emerging from the gloom, where a certain slant of light enveloped the whole of London. It even came into her room, touching everything within sight. It touched her the most, however, bathing her ivory-warm skin in a purifying glow, touching upon the highlights in her blue-black hair, warming her face. She laughed softly, its warmth a welcome comfort. She almost wished it could remain, its golden disk never descending under the horizon, where it would abandon all to darkness, as its dusk-born twin reigned for another night.

Wendy sighed, suddenly disheartened. The moon was a poor comparison to the grandeur of the sun, where the shadows and scratching would again come to torment her under the moon’s pale, waning light. _Where it would come,_ she mentally corrected as she inwardly shuddered, her hands drawing against her arms for warmth. She looked once more upon the city, the snow-covered rooftops almost blinding her where the sun touched them. Wendy squinted. Fingers of darkness, which drifted from the smokestacks, did little defend her from the sun’s radiance, the wispy digits a mere obstruction to it.

Another sigh fell away from her, and she placed a pale cheek against the window’s stained glass, feeling its opposing coldness compared to the sun’s blazing warmth. It was almost comforting to her, just as the need to withdraw from the light she loved so much compelled her to turn to her daily ablutions, and prepare herself for the coming day.

Reluctantly she turned away from it, her bare feet falling against the floorboards, which creaked with every step. She blushed slightly, half-ashamed that she could produce such noise. She prayed that Nana would not hear her, lest she be reprimanded for not wearing her slippers. _Aunt Millicent would certainly be affronted if she knew of my half-dressed state._ Wendy smiled at the thought of her aunt, the older woman’s face growing white with outrage, that bird’s nest of red hair contrasting that forbidding, patrician’s countenance, before sitting at her vanity and taking a brush in hand.

She made a face when she looked at her reflection in the mirror, her wan features confirming her troubled night. Dark circles lingered under her eyes, her haggard expression evidence enough of her deprived sleep. She had not even bothered to make herself presentable; a half-inclined attempt to tame that unruly mass of hair into a loose bun, where wisps of darkness fell about her snow-white face like shadows from a raven’s wing. Her lips were pale, her eyes bloodshot.

Dejected by her appearance, she released her hair from the confining pins which held it, and commenced to brush the tangled mess into that which would—if only slightly—make her look presentable. She flinched, grunting when she caught a tangle, and almost regretted even attempting to brush her hair. I should have left it in the bun. It would have been less trouble had I done, she thought distractedly, frowning at the instrument that had caused her so much grief. She set the brush aside, eyeing its tarnished silver handle critically before taking it into her hand once more. She barely managed to unravel another tangle before she heard a knock at the door.

“Wendy?” the soft, almost timid voice of her brother Michael filtered through its wooden length. “Are you awake? For if you in fact are… Oh, bother it! Might I come in for a moment, Wendy? I know you are awake; there is no sense in asking, since I heard you making so much noise, with your treading about the boards below stairs. You sound like an elephant, with all of that stomping, you realise.”

A smile instantly replaced Wendy’s frown. So someone had heard her! She almost laughed as she set the brush aside. “I am coming, Michael,” she said, putting on a robe over her nightgown before opening the door. Her smile widened to see her brother’s grinning countenance. Like a veritable Cheshire cat he was; half-crescent grin and all. Wendy could only commend him for it. “Now, what could have possibly gotten you in so bright a mood on this dreary day, I wonder? Did you manage to place something dreadful in Aunt Millicent’s tea again?” she mused, feigning curiosity.

Michael returned her jest in kind. “Oh, would that not have been just the thing for this morning! She certainly hated those tadpoles swimming about in her teacup, didn’t she?” He grinned at Wendy mischievously before adding, “But no, I fear it nothing quite so brilliant as that. John simply told her that we have another occupant; one who has taken up residence here.” That Cheshire cat grin widened a fraction when he caught her curious stare. “Oh, come now, surely you are not so puzzled as Aunt was—especially when you were the one who ensured us of the possibility that another could, very well, come into our home, and remain with us till the end of our days?”

Wendy frowned, no less puzzled by her brother’s assertion. “What are you implying, Michael? There is no one here, other than us. You know that as well as I.”

And yet, in spite of the logic behind her argument, Michael gave Wendy a look that unnerved her. “That we have seen, anyhow,” he gravely intoned, and Wendy had the good sense to scowl at him.

“You frightened Aunt Millicent with ghost stories,” she deadpanned. “Michael, you surely must realise that she will tell Mother and Father, and that I shall be the one to suffer the brunt of how they choose to punish us. And Heaven only knows what she will do to Slightly, when she takes him home with her today.” She closed her eyes, imagining her cousin’s fate, before looking to Michael once more. “Knowing Aunt, she may not allow him to visit us again.”

Michael looked down, his grin disappearing. “Oh…I had quite forgotten about Aunt’s temper. I am terribly sorry, Wendy; none of us hadn’t considered the possibility of her blaming you—or punishing Slightly. John only thought that it would be a grand laugh for us,” he whispered, before meeting her gaze. “I suppose were we wrong…”

But Wendy only shook her head. “It hardly matters now,” she returned, quietly, and then gave him a comforting smile. “Oh, do not fret over it, Michael: this is no fault of your own—or even that of our brothers’, for that matter. I daresay Aunt shall always find a reason to admonish my behaviour. She has a tendency to find in me my worst qualities, since my stories are apparently the most shameful of them. She is probably waiting for me in the drawing room, watching every second pass on Mother’s clock, and only waiting for her chance to have a word with me in private,” she affirmed with a half-mocking grin.

The youngest Darling brother could only return the gesture, his freckles a bright contradiction to that impish face. Wendy shook her head in amusement, as she bade him to wait for her. “I shall only be a moment,” she assured him, before taking the brush again in hand. She laughed when she caught his questioning look. “I know it appears quite the horror; but then, we should not want Aunt to make a claim that I have allowed birds to nest in my hair, either. I honestly believe that far worse a transgression, than the tadpoles and a host restless spirits haunting us combined!”

She heard Michael’s laughter when she shut the door, and readied herself for a much-dreaded confrontation with her dear Aunt Millicent. Indeed, Wendy half-wondered, as she brushed her hair and put on a simple light-blue gown, if the entity—which she was now beginning to believe part of her wild imagination—was less of a hazard, compared to a very stiff and irate, if not very real Aunt Millicent. _For after all, it had only said my name and…held me._

She shook her head, and looked at her reflection once more. _Either way,_ she deduced thoughtfully to the solemn, raven-haired maiden before her, _I shall discover the truth soon enough…Even if it is a truth that I very much fear._

…

And of course, Wendy’s arrival downstairs had only confirmed her fears.

For as her prediction proved, unfortunately, true, Aunt Millicent had indeed been waiting for her in the drawing room, desiring a private word before everyone joined for breakfast. Wendy had known that, from the moment upon seeing the disapproval in her aunt’s eyes, she would soon suffer for her brothers’ mistake. For indeed, Aunt Millicent’s face was as red as her hair, the massive, ebony grandfather clock, which belonged to Wendy’s mother’s, mother’s mother, emphasised her aunt’s impatience as the older woman stood before it, the tapping of an intolerant green shoe matching the clock’s ticking perfectly.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock. Tip, tap, tip, tap._

Wendy stilled herself against the menacing combination, since she could only thank God that, even though Michael had inherited some of their aunt’s features, he had not inherited Aunt Millicent’s temper. _Although,_ thought Wendy quietly, _I do not think all people with red hair have tempers—not like Aunt Millicent’s, at any rate._

Nevertheless, she had the good sense to look down, her deference lifting only a fragment of the tension between aunt and niece.

“Good morning, Aunt Millicent,” she said, her eyes remaining carefully on the hem of her aunt’s green velvet dress. The material was expensive, and was certainly of a better quality than her own gown’s wearing linen. She frowned, but wisely kept her eyes averted from the gorgon before her, that Medusa’s gaze compelling her to escape from its stone scrutiny. Her present unease increased when she made her retreat, an unpleasant truth coming to light. _Indeed,_ she despairingly considered, _I think Aunt Millicent the worse of the two. At least I did not feel my blood turn cold when I was held last night. Nor did my skin become as stone when it whispered my name—not until now, under that insidious gaze of hers. Oh, why must she look at me so? I cannot escape her, no matter where I turn in this infernal room! Oh, dear, she intends to follow me…_

Considering this, Wendy moved unsteadily to the other side of the room, taking a seat by the window, her eyes purposefully watching the movements from without. She almost forgot her sudden disquiet, the myriad of passers-by and automobiles drawing her attention as they traversed the cold dirty streets. She almost smiled at the dismal beauty of their daily commute, of London itself, and all its terrible wonders. “Oh, Rose, thou are sick indeed,” she murmured quietly, instantly fascinated when a sparrow, which had landed upon the windowsill, ruffled its soft brown feathers, puffing out its chest against the cold. She smiled at it, and tapped at the window. “Oh, what a beauty you are!” she whispered to it, and laughed when it gave her a quizzical look.

Her Aunt Millicent, however, remained unimpressed by the display, and only huffed at Wendy’s sudden interest in the pedestrian world without. “Oh, Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she muttered, those serpentine eyes falling upon the wretched, feathered creature from without. Prey for the perceptive. The Medusa inwardly hissed, finding another more susceptible to her charms. She cast Wendy a reproving look. “With your present observation, it appears that you have quite forgotten the rest of the world. You have even forgotten your manners this morning, I see,” she put in, acerbically. “You care more for that sparrow than you do in your obligations to your family. Oh, what am I to do with you? After all of the many hours I have spent instructing you. And that hair of yours…wild and unbound, as usual. I should not be surprised.” She suppressed an exasperated sigh, her grey eyes expressing only a portion of the fettered emotion instead. “I am sure that your brother has already disclosed a certain little incident upon my arriving here.”

Wendy grimaced, her look contrite. “I am sorry, Aunt, about my telling them—”

But Aunt Millicent cast aside the apology with an indifferent hand. “You influence them too much, since you are the eldest,” she interjected firmly, but then shook her head. “Oh, Wendy, really, though. Ghost stories? You are almost seventeen. I thought you a little above such nonsense, especially after _that boy_ —”

“Please, Aunt Millicent, please leave Peter out of this,” Wendy broke in, standing abruptly from her seat. She had the audacity to meet the older woman’s gaze, those dark eyes fathomless, almost inscrutable. _I refuse to be a stone statue in front of her. I will not falter before her. Not this time,_ she thought, and her hands clenched in resolve. She stepped forward then, closing the distance between them. She vaguely noticed her opponent take a cautious step back; for even though she and her Aunt Millicent, however equally matched in determination, were not so in height, as the older woman dwarfed her by half a head. _And yet, I have encountered far worse in the Neverland than she has in her darkest dreams. She fears that which she has not seen, fears me for having seen it. But then…Peter was also there, protecting me._

And so it was that Wendy found her tongue. “Aunt Millicent, again, I do apologise if my stories have caused you any undue harm. But you must know that Peter has nothing to do with my telling any story that I may wish to impart to my brothers. In fact, he might actually agree with you, since my stories mainly concern matters of the adult world.”

Millicent glowered, that flinty, venomous look promising retribution. “But he is the cause of all of this,” argued she, disbelieving to the last. “He was the one who took you and your brothers away. Heaven only knows what danger he placed all of you in with those wild creatures, natives, and those…pirates. You could have been injured by any one of them, Wendy—perhaps even worse.”

Wendy inwardly flinched at her aunt’s implication. To be successfully violated—a Victorian preference in phrase for the act itself—would entail the worst having been done to her…Something she had little knowledge of then, though had still felt the fear of it nonetheless. _And yet,_ she considered, _the captain had kept me from his crew until Peter came…_ Her eyes darkened at the thought of what Hook had done—albeit out of a gentleman’s courtesy, because his form had surely dictated it—for her. She considered it, dreading to acknowledge the possibility of something she had long denied, and was only relieved of admitting the truth of it when she heard Aunt Millicent mercifully continue, those bright-red curls bouncing in frustration.

“Indeed, I must confess,” the older woman furthered, “that you had all of us worried. And even more, I have never seen George act so outrageously. You should have seen him in that doghouse. Quite shameful, really. The neighbours spoke of it for weeks…” She sighed then, though that hardened look remained. “But honestly, Wendy, that boy could have done a real harm to you, if not your brothers.” She did not convey the fact that Slightly had once recklessly made the admission of a few of their adventures, though both she and Wendy knew of his error.

Wendy shook her head at the tacit truth. “And yet, he returned all of us home safely, as well as allowing my other brothers a place to live,” she countered, decisively. “And besides, if it had not been for Peter, then you would not have found a son in Slightly. You cannot imagine how he dotes on you; he has certainly done so, whilst visiting us, here.”

Aunt Millicent nodded, as that stern expression lightened at the mention of her own son’s name. “Slightly is a good child,” she admitted, if not a little lovingly. “I receive only the highest praise of his achievements. He has the highest marks in his Class, you know.”

Wendy could only smile, as she knew that Slightly, albeit perceptive of the world and its workings, was not one for books. _And yet, he wishes to be a scientist._ She inwardly smiled at her cousin’s endeavour, just as she found that she had successfully diffused her aunt’s temper. She felt a hand fall over one of hers in a confiding gesture, all traces of anger and reproach absolved in those insightful grey eyes. She smiled at her aunt, finding that the old girl was not so terrible, after all.

“You have the strangest manner, Wendy Darling, if I do say so. But do come along,” prodded a smiling Aunt Millicent. “I have yet to see your mother, since I only spoke with your father for a moment before he left for the bank, and this drawing room has grown quite cold with a chill. I am in need of a good breakfast, as I am also need to collect my son today. I daresay he has neglected to visit his poor mother quite long enough!”

With an encouraging nod, Wendy dutifully followed Aunt Millicent out of the drawing room, relieved that she had the tact to agree to everything being said, even the suggestion of her accompanying her aunt to a dinner party.

“Of course it shall take place within a fortnight, but we shall discuss the details with your mother over breakfast,” Aunt Millicent prattled on, that prudent mind no longer concerned by Wendy’s presence, as she made her way to Mrs. Darling’s side instead. “Oh, Mary, there you are! I had almost forgotten to tell you the latest thing that the Baroness Hampden imparted to me, just yesterday…” She barely noticed Wendy no longer at her side, the impressionable girl lost in the shadows which lingered around the dining room’s threshold.

Wendy’s eyes widened at the sudden withdrawal, the presence of another—one, whom she could not see—pulling her against him, as if he had been waiting for her all along. She nearly screamed at the tight grasp on her arm, though held her tongue as she found herself turning, and coming face-to-face with a very concerned, if not overly penitent, John.

“John?” she whispered, noting the concern in his eyes. “You frightened me half to death! Why have you pulled me away from Aunt? What ever is the matter with you?”

He hesitated for a moment; that schooled expression of his troubled. He pulled her further away from the presence of their mother and aunt, before uttering in a hurried whisper, “I found this the only way to actually speak to you without Aunt or Mother hearing.” He snorted as he spoke the former’s name, his acknowledgment of their aunt laced with apathy.

Wendy frowned at him. “Oh, John, really,” she muttered. “You need not harbour such resentment against Aunt Millicent, since I believe it ‘twas you who gave her such a fright. I still cannot believe that you considered such a thing! You are behaving as a child would, frightening people for no cause but for your own pleasure!”

John baulked at her censure, even though he knew Wendy, in all her infinite wisdom, was right. “Oh, never mind that,” he groused. “A lecture was not why I pulled you aside, anyhow.”

“Then what, pray tell, was the reason?” prodded an irritated Wendy. Both heard the sound of laughter coming from the dining room, as whatever anecdote concerning the Baroness Hampden had intrigued both their mother and aunt.

John only sighed, as he quietly led a protesting Wendy out of the darkened corridor, and thus returning her to the drawing room. “I do hope Aunt’s gossip will keep them awhile,” he said, before closing the door. He almost smiled when he noticed that Wendy had already seated herself—by the window, of all places!—before he joined her, taking a seat across from her. “You always choose that window, you know,” he mused, the fingers of his left hand idly tapping the table in front of him.

A dark brow rose in curiosity. “It is my favourite seat in this room, such that it is,” Wendy answered laconically, unable to find any humour in her brother’s observation.

“You wound me, sister dear,” he retorted, mockingly.

She gave him an unladylike snort. “Oh, do not presume to mock me. Your sense of irony in choosing this room speaks volumes, John. You wished for a private word, like Aunt? Perhaps Mother will be after you.” She almost smiled when she saw him stiffen. “Oh, dear, now I have offended you. You shall keep me here all morning as punishment, no doubt.”

John glowered at her. “You have a tongue, which could clip a hedge,” he retorted dryly. “But give me half a moment! Good God, Wendy, I am to leave within the week, and already you make me feel as if I should be leaving today. If you would simply be patient, then I will tell you why I brought you in here, as I am sure that we both harbour no love for this room.” He caught her eye. “Oh, yes, Aunt brought me in here, just before you came down. And since you asked why I brought you here, the truth of it is that I pulled you aside because I was worried. Call it brotherly concern for your wellbeing, but I knew that Aunt would believe you the cause for her little upset over our meagre jest.”

“She was more than a little upset, John,” Wendy corrected him. She stood up, almost ready to leave before she felt one of his hands firmly grasp her arm. Frowning, she conceded to his unspoken plea as she returned to her seat.

“Please, Wendy, I need only a moment,” he implored of her quietly, the depth of his remorse evident. “I understand the profundity of Aunt’s anger, I honestly do. But really, though, one would think no harm to be done, in making idle jest of a presence taking up residence in our own home. Of course I believe that, when we made the suggestion that such a presence came to inhabit your room, Aunt nearly had an apoplexy. She honestly assumed that you had a man in your room last night! Can you believe such rubbish? She practically believed you having some secret liaison with a man—a man! Apparently, the word, ghost, did not occur to her.” He grumbled something under his breath, and Wendy strained to hear it; though to no avail, as her brother continued in his tirade. “But never mind…everything is all right—your discussion with Aunt Millicent in the drawing room, I mean? She did not…” He looked down, as if unable to continue, but then composed himself, those same dark eyes meeting hers. “Do you suppose that she will tell Mother and Father, about what we did to her after Father left this morning?”

Wendy shook her head. “No, John, she is not going to tell Mother or Father. At least…I do not believe she is.”

The eldest Darling son nodded his head at this. “Good. Then I am at least relieved that she will not concern them with it. If she does, I shall intervene, Wendy. I’ll not have you punished for something I did. I am very sorry about this morning.”

Feeling his grasp on her arm soften, Wendy decided a different approach. “John,” she said, almost complacently, “these intrigues in which you play on Aunt Millicent must stop. I could scarcely placate her, though she had certainly not mentioned any man in my room. I cannot believe she had even considered that,” she mused, half in disbelief.

John snorted. “That woman would believe the worst of anyone. She already suspects that I shall be a man, whose means will come only through transactions of questionable legality. You know how she is. But really, Wendy, I have to say that you do look as if you have had company in the night. Did you sleep, at all?” he asked upon seeing the haunted look on her face, the light pouring in through the window emphasising her pallor. He carefully took one of her hands in his. “Wendy? What is it? You can tell me. Did something upset you last night?” When she did not answer him, he urged her, promising her that it was only out of concern that he know.

“I did have trouble sleeping,” she finally admitted, the shadows under her eyes growing more profound in the sunlight. “It was a nightmare, John. And yet, I know it was not a dream. I was awake.” She bit the lower part of her lip, her composed visage growing dark with uncertainty. “Oh, John, there were sounds—scratchings and whispers; I know not from where, but they continued for most of the night. I have barely slept.” She shook her head, a few wayward strands of ebony overshadowing her torn expression. “I had at first believed it all of you, trying to frighten me—”

“Wendy,” John broke in, his hands rising in defence, “we were not there. We had nothing to do with any scratching—or whispers, for that matter.”

Wendy’s gaze fell to the table between them, and she considered the hideous orange vase at its centre, though not really seeing it. “I know,” she muttered, if not a little reluctantly. “I looked in the nursery last night, and found that all of you were asleep.” She looked up then, her eyes meeting his. “It could not have been any of you.”

John took her hand again, disheartened by what he saw in his sister’s eyes, though unable to avert the pain in that solemn stare. “Wendy,” he began gently, “I understand your uncertainties, and am glad that you have confided in me. But truly, it was probably something from without—a tree branch, or an owl, perhaps—as the rest…was probably just a dream.”

A forced smile encouraged his faltering assumptions, as Wendy, not wishing to argue, gave in to his reasoning. “Perhaps you are right, John,” she said, her face resigned to his justification. “Perhaps I dreamt it all, and believed myself awake. You need not worry over me; you must concern yourself with returning to school. I shall be fine,” she promised him, smiling brightly to mollify that guarded look.

John, if only half-confident in her reassurance, returned that unconvincing smile, where he again assured it only a dream.

Wendy said nothing of her doubts regarding his assertions, however. Nor did she make to concern the rest of her brothers, as she allowed John to believe what he wanted. For after all, it was all she could do, as she knew—or rather, felt—it near, looming above, in her room, waiting until the sun’s final rays died against the horizon, as the darkness and the shadows would come to haunt her once again.

As such, she did not partake in her aunt’s discourse when she joined her family at table. Nor did she eat, the weight of her fears pressing heavily against her already unsettled stomach. No one noticed, of course, since she played the parts of the devoted daughter, niece, and sister to the greatest efficiency. She was an ideal woman of her age: young, charming, beautiful…that wondrous smile hiding the truth underneath its charming façade. Even her mother saw no fault in her composure, just as she would have the rest of her family—including her father, when he returned from the bank that evening—to believe everything was as perfect as that deceptive smile had them to so easily believe.

She failed to eat for the remainder of the day.

…

It was late before Wendy decided to retire to her own room. The slow, steady drawing of hours between daylight and dusk had passed with painful intensity, where each sounding of the grandfather clock had foretold the dark coming of night. Aunt Millicent and Slightly had already departed from No. 14, their hosts left to their own devices in the drawing room and its cold draft. Wendy had almost shuddered without her cousin’s presence; for without his warmth and smiling cheer, he had left the room that much colder, the ticking of the midnight hour proceeding until the rest of her family sought refuge in the lulling arms of sleep.

Wendy closed her eyes, recalling her hesitance to leave. The tick, tick, ticking of the clock echoed in her thoughts, matching the frenetic beating of her own heart. She almost sighed at the feel of it, the living muscle vaulting within her chest, as if anticipating what would come in the night. _There is no need to fear anything, since I intend to keep the lights on,_ she told herself, a hand falling against her heart as if to calm it. _So that now, to still the beating of my heart…_

She smiled, half-expecting to see a raven upon her vanity. It would certainly be a comfort, compared to all of that horrid scratching, she mildly considered as she ruffled the sheets on her bed. But then her amusement dissipated, her doubts returning. For with the approaching night, her fears had intensified. Her soft expression faltered, as her uncertainties of that which would transpire in the night had remained with her throughout the day, quiet, subtle, buried underneath a layer of contrived happiness. Even her brothers, albeit perceptive and intelligent as they indeed were, had not suspected anything—not even when she had left them with her story for the night—one that was certainly without ghosts—before finding herself obliged to depart from their company. John had given her a comforting look, those spectacled eyes calming her, reassuring her. And she had given him another forced smile, before engulfing herself in the darkness of the corridor. She had grasped at its walls, almost blinded by the shadows which surrounded her.

She had stumbled, almost fallen, but did not scream as she found her way. She had hesitated at her door, a white hand clinging to its brass doorknob…waiting, listening for something which did not belong, something dwelling within. She had remained still for a moment, perhaps two, before finding the courage to open to the door. _I had imagined the worst, believing that I would hear that which echoed in my memory, but was only greeted with a grave silence, the lights within keeping the shadows at bay. Nothing is here tonight. Nothing, as John had assured me._

It was with this idle comfort that she left the warmth of her bed, and sought out a nightgown from her wardrobe. Her hands plundered the mass of cotton and lace before falling upon a thin, modest substitute at the bottom. It was one for the summer, with its sleeveless arms and thin material, and was certainly not appropriate for the inclement weather without. But Wendy cared not, as she found herself growing tired of wearing layers of clothing. She longed for the sun, for the warmth of spring, not this deadened wasteland she was forced to endure for six months. She had barely covered herself before she heard something fall.

Her shoulders tensed as she turned abruptly, her eyes darting over the length of her room, searching, almost fearing. She sighed in relief, however, when she saw that it was only a book that had fallen from a nearby shelf, close to the window. _Of all of the things to be frightened of…Really, Wendy Darling, you have indeed, gone quite mad._

Reproving herself, she made to return it to its rightful place. She bent down, regretting that she had taken off her stockings; the floor was unbearably cold where the rug did not touch. Her feet endured the floor’s icy feel nevertheless, as she took the book in hand and glanced at its title. The Castle of Otranto. She almost laughed, the book’s worn, blue leather surface mocking her. She shook her head. It was a fitting irony, that Walpole’s work should be the one to have fallen, and had as thus frightened her. _I should at least be grateful that it was only a book, and not a giant’s helmet,_ she thought, laughing at her fears. _Indeed, I think I shall refrain from confessing to John that he was right. I would never hear the end of—_

_Liar…_

The book fell from her hand, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. It was an unceremonious comedown for a classic; the master of such a novel work, if still living, would be appalled by the effrontery imparted. Wendy, however, failed to notice her error, her thoughts on all else as that which she feared most was heard, the _scratch, scratch, scratchhhhing,_ followed by a voice which had dwelled in her thoughts.

_…Bewitcher…_

Her head turned in all directions, the voice drawing both near to her, and then falling distant, almost echoing from every corner of the room. “Bewitcher?” she reiterated, uncomprehendingly.

_…Betrayer…_

She took a thoughtful step away from the window when it furthered in its ominous approach, her eyes remaining upon its shaded glass panes, perceiving all without. Nothing. There was nothing there: no tree branch, no owl, only shadows. She closed her eyes as the voice continued, growing more persistent when she tried to ignore it. “I have betrayed no one,” she said, as if to convince herself of that self-assured truth.

_…Blood on thy hands…_

Wendy’s heart stilled in her chest. Blood on her hands? Whatever did it mean? What was the meaning of all of this? What thing of darkness had she unknowingly unleashed?

“Please, please stop this,” she found herself whisper to it, her eyes opening to reveal, not the confidence she had only moments before, but unbridled terror. “Whatever you are, I ask that you stop. Please. I am not what you say. I am none of these terrible things.”

But it ignored her, where it instead whispered the final word which condemned her utterly:

_…Murderer…_

She felt herself collapse at the harsh sound of its verdict, her knees failing her as she fell to the floor. She shuddered, her breathing an unsteady rasp, where all the while feeling its dark presence drawing near.

 _Wendy,_ it uttered, as if in mock reverence, as it was then, in the height of its power over her, that all of the lights in the room went out, plunging Wendy into a sea of perpetual darkness.

She cried out, though no sound escaped her, that lovely voice silenced by some unknown hand…as that same hand was upon her now, tugging at the hem of her nightgown, cold, nebulous, unnatural. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes when she felt it continue its methodical journey upward, that stiffened, watery feel of its hand leeching through the fabric of her nightgown, leaving her skin chilled by its invisible impressions. Its presence was cold. _So very cold,_ she thought, trembling, when it considered the edge of her knee, and then drifting over the curve of her waist, before lingering over a bared shoulder. She nearly cried when she felt that unseen hand close in around her shoulder, absorbing its remaining warmth, possessing it.

 _Wendy,_ it said again, this time next to her ear. _I am here, just as I promised thee._

A single tear fell upon the utterance of her name. _Oh, God, please make it leave, please make it depart,_ she prayed, her lips trembling when she felt those cold fingers fall upon them. She heard a sigh—almost one she could swear of contentment—when it traced over her kiss, the one she had freely given, but was undeniably rejected. She felt herself growing faint, for the feel of those shadowy fingers appraising her most sacred treasure made her feel tainted, dirty. She felt ashamed of herself—ashamed of it trying to claim what rightfully belonged to another. She pulled away, finding a sliver of courage amidst her fear, her voice freed from its crushing spell.

“Who are you?” she whispered to it, glaring out into the darkness, but was greeted with only silence. Even the scratching had ceased upon the asking of her question. She took a step forward, her eyes as dark as the shadows which clung to her, the kiss tingling at the corner of her mouth. She ignored its stinging feel, her eyes falling blindly upon the mirror. “I demand to know who you are, for I will not allow this to go on a moment longer. You will not touch me again!” she vowed, taking another step forward. She thought she heard something in front of her. A movement, near the vanity. She took a step toward it. “Are you afraid to speak, now that I have found my voice?” she taunted it, taking another blind step. “Not so frightening now, are you? Oh, why so silent? Surely you are not afraid of me?”

The rest of the books fell from the shelf behind her, joining the fate of the first. Wendy ceased in her step. She had crossed a line. She had passed her own bounds, finding herself in unknown territory with this faceless entity.

 _Foolish, Wendy, absolutely foolish of you!_ she scolded herself, her body growing cold with a sudden chill. She breathed out, her warm breath nought but a vapour in front of her, the floor a thin layer of ice. She instinctively grasped her arms, rubbing them for warmth, her feet numbed by the aching sting of the floor. Dear God, what she had done? Her confidence had abandoned her, and her heart plummeted when she heard the scratching—not at the window, where she had first believed it—but upon her mirror. _I have been wrong, so terribly wrong._ She had almost believed it part of her imagination; a dream, and nothing more.

And yet, the entity remained, denying her that pleasant, self-deception, scratching away at her sanity, calling out to her. A hazy shadow drew over the mirror like a veil, and Wendy was drawn to it, like a delicate white moth to an alluring flame. She realised her folly, yet its pull compelled her, tempting her to be burned; and Wendy wanted to be burned, if only to learn of her tormentor’s identity.

The entity moved beyond the dark obscurity, shadowy in its ever-shifting movements within the silvery pool which harboured it. Wendy could not discern its face, though she knew it attained a more masculine presence. She ventured near it, disregarding all that which screamed at her no to. She could not escape from it if she tried; the door, she was sure, locked by its unbending will.

 _Wendy, Wendy, Wendy_ …it whispered, and Wendy heeded it, drawing near the vanity.

“Who are you?” she asked of it again, her eyes trying to pierce through the shadows which kept them apart. She reached out, touching the thick patch of darkness. It slipped through her fingers like the finest silk. She looked down at her hands in intrigue before turning once again to her faceless companion. “I must know who you are,” she murmured, half in dread, half in fear. “Show yourself to me.” She could swear she heard its amusement in her plea, that faceless visage, though, inclining its head to her desire.

 _Then I shall show thee, as I have journeyed far to find thee, Wendy Darling_ …it said, the veil falling away at last.

Wendy halted in her breathing, as she knew, with undue certainty, whose voice and whose face to which the image in the mirror belonged. For there she stood, in the presence of one she believed to be long dead. As there in the mirror, meeting her gaze, was the ghost of a former Captain James Hook. Wendy paled in horror at the sight of him. He was unlike that which she remembered in her childhood. No, he was nothing like the charismatic cutthroat whom she once believed to be a man of feeling. He was nothing like the man whom she had once feared, and yet, secretly, had also admired. And yet, she knew it was the same man, only changed by death.

He appeared as one drowned, decayed and purple, his veins a dark contrast under that sickly, thin layer of skin. His long dark hair was a tangled, waterlogged mass of ebony, which fell like a black river over the remnants of his once-resplendent red coat. It was in tatters now; torn apart by rows of merciless teeth. His lips were pale, bloodless, that dreadful hook the only thing which had remained as Wendy remembered it. As his eyes…Those terrible, forget-me-not eyes—that now bore into the very moorings of her soul—promised retribution within their hollow, clouded depths. He grinned at her, an eternal gesture of the dead. Wendy recoiled at the sight of it. This was not a nightmare John could banish through reason; this was real, as it was a reality in which she hated.

_Oh, God, no!_

“It cannot be!” she rasped out, turning away from the truth, unwilling to believe. “You died. I saw you fall into the jaws of that crocodile! This cannot be!”

 _Ah, but it is,_ he confirmed, wholly without sympathy. He looked at her horror-stricken face in triumph, that appalling grin deepening, an intoxicating poison all its own. _So thou dost remember me, after all,_ he mused, immeasurably pleased when he noted her dismay. Ah, but he could not injure her with false civility; that would be terribly bad form indeed. No. He would assure her, promise her what any man of form would for a lady as treacherous and inconstant as she. For what he spoke only plunged Wendy further into despair, as the shadows of his own darkness drew around her, forcing her to acknowledge him, pulling her close to the mirror’s edge. He heard her cry out when she looked into his eyes and saw what lay there, and he smiled.

 _You do remember,_ he said again, his lips barely a whisper from hers, the mirror their only barrier. _And since thou knowest the truth of my return, thou shouldst also know that I, having finally found thee, shall remain with thee for all time. For indeed, my dear Miss Darling, it has been far too long since our last meeting, as I have been in sore need of thy company. As I have finally found thee at last…_

His cruel laughter was the only sound Wendy heard as her world—once a place of hopes, wishes, and dreams—had been torn asunder. The light within her eyes died, becoming as dark and opaque as the shadows that surrounded her. Her sight began to fail, that horrific visage before her diminishing as everything, real and imagined, blurred before finally fading to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice feedback is very much appreciated... :)


	3. A Shallow Reflection

A single cry was heard in a solitary corner of London. A single cry, which drew that of angels from St. George’s to tears. For no mortal, piteous and hardhearted—as most inherently were—had heard it. They had been ignorant of such delicate, timeless beauty, where they instead chose to go about their daily rituals, in deifying the ‘Change instead of their acclaimed God.

The Friday commute was one of chaos and uncertainly, as there the city’s denizens would walk among a maze of streets and passageways, methodically dodging human traffic and street corners. As it was there, in the midst of London itself, they would walk, all dressed tastefully in their greatcoats and bowler hats, calculating the time it would require of them to buy or sell on the pocket watches held in a gloved hand before them, their souls a fettered appendage to that great monstrosity whose monetary veins were the lifeblood of its people.

It was the common practise, first indoctrinated by a Virgin Queen, to spread wealth and prosperity among her people, a river of commerce flowing freely, un-dammed by the foresight of that noble-born brow. And yet, the great River Thames—the true lifeblood of its people—flowed on, constant, unfailing in its means to assure that which all would come to know in life and death—much unlike the Royal Exchange, an erratic and undependable method of predicting the direction of stocks and shares—trade, as the grandees and grand dames of society would bitterly deem it.

As such, the river and the angels—heavily bodies, who remained forever frozen in pillars of stone—had only heard that cry, soft and remitting as it had been, as such had been the cry of a storyteller.

For amidst the bedlam in the streets below, Wendy Darling cried out in her sleep. She stirred, her arms and legs thrashing madly about the sheets, wrestling some unseen foe, fighting to remain conscious. _I will not let it pull me under. I will not let it find me. Not again…_ , she thought distractedly, those great dark eyes finally opening to the mid-morning light.

Her vision was hazy at first, her eyes sensitive to the sun’s radiance. She flinched against the blinding pain, turning away from the light instantly, breathing heavily. She composed herself, however, forcing her reluctant self to look again, and welcome that which she had long yearned to see.

Her head lowered a fraction in relief. The light was not so blinding as it had first been, and Wendy marvelled at its warmth—a searing opposite to the coldness she presently felt for the sheets had done little to shield her from the cold. She sat up, shivering, her arms coming about her in a weak attempt to fight off the chill. She felt as if she had pulled from a frozen river, the entirety of her body covered in a thin layer of ice. _Of course, it is not the coldness of the room, but…_

Shaking her head, she cast all thoughts of the previous night aside. She bit the lower half of her lip, her look one of exhaustion, her nightgown and hair a dishevelled mess. She cast a wary glance at her reflection in the mirror before turning away in apparent shame. Her skin was pale, her lips a deep, solemn blue. And yet, it could have been worse. So much worse…She dared not consider the possibility as she pulled her knees close to her chest, her arms wrapping around them, her chin resting upon both in thought. She dared not remember what had transpired before waking. She did not wish to recall anything, but found herself denied that comfort, as she remembered—remembered the cold, icy water and the darkness which had dwelled therein…

A mournful sigh escaped her in a shallow breath, and her eyes closed in defeat. And yet, protested her better judgment, her release had been one of mercy, not regret; for amid the dusty, rudimentary precession of dreams and nightmares, which had drawn her further, deeper among the river’s winding rushes, had she found herself trapped—a prisoner of her own mind—in a dream that was not a dream, but a nightmare. _As it is a nightmare I wish to forget_ , she thought dejectedly, those haunted dark eyes closing, remembering…

…

She had traversed the clay-cold path along the riverbed; feet bare, with flowers in her hand—forget-me-nots. Her white gown flowed freely in the gentle breeze, her hair free of the confining pins and exotic feathered plumes her Aunt Millicent often prodded her into wearing. That long black mane fell about her face like a shroud of midnight, wild and beautifully untamed; a veritable Boadicea with her warrior maiden’s heart. Her Aunt Millicent would be appalled by the comparison, claiming it some wild blood, hidden away by their forefathers. Of course, the old girl would be affronted by anything that could indeed prove that madness lingered in the family blood. As she would certainly concern herself by what the neighbours thought if they considered her wild! Wendy internally quipped, smiling at the thought. She walked along the garden path, keeping close to the river, her thoughts remaining firmly upon her solitary presence in this Miltonian version of paradise.

It was almost like the Neverland to her: a place of freedom from the dingy, smoke-infested purgatory she had long come to acknowledge as home. It was nothing like this wondrous place, which was all forest and meadowland, the sun unhindered by a blanket of artificial night. London could never compare, with its meagre garden of earthly delights and blackened skies. No, this place, Wendy realised, was something purer, more virtuous, like the last shred of childhood innocence she would have to forfeit in order to take on the mantle of woman. As such, she looked on this untouched Utopia with silent wonder.

For there was no Aunt Millicent here; no dreadful hair pins to pull at her hair, and therefore fashion it into something she abhorred; or even those flamboyantly expensive peacock feathers to pierce at her scalp and tickle her nose. Wherever here is, Wendy casually observed before placing one of the forget-me-nots in her unbound hair. She marvelled at it, finding its beauty simple, almost alluring. She idly wondered if a knight had gathered such for his ladylove before falling to an untimely fate, his lovelorn cry calling out to her, pleading that she not forget him.

Forget-me-not.

Hollow. Dead. Cold.

Lifeless.

Like **his** eyes…

 _“…Beyond the looking glass…”_ she whispered, those midnight eyes widening in remembrance. She stilled in her movements, thinking, deliberating, as if trying to remember something forgotten in the clouded expanse of her memories. She could feel something out of place here, something terribly wrong, even when she could not recall what it was that made her feel so. Like a creature of darkness veiled behind a mask of beauty.

She shook her head, setting the unpleasant thought aside, her curiosity of her surroundings mercifully taking hold. She vaguely noticed her reflection following her, mimicking her every movement in the river’s black water. She paused in her step, the river a veritable ribbon of stars and moonlight, all murky and dark, fathomless. Her reflection smiled at her, that familiar face a welcoming comfort as a pair of white arms reached out to her, imploring her to return the gesture, to touch those hands which were very much her own. Water coursed down those twin pillars of ivory, patient, enduring as it waited for their earthbound counterpoints to join them. They appeared so warm and inviting to her, completely harmless…

But then, Wendy’s good judgement came to mind, and she retreated from the water’s edge, fearful, reticent of such captivating beauty. For as she looked upon herself in the water, her reflection’s entreating smile almost looked as that of a portrait: false and devoid feeling, as if contrived by a painter’s clever hand. She stared at it, watching its face and smile before its visage shifted to that of pure malevolence, its teeth like those of a nyxian nymph, sharp and carnivorous, a doppelgänger. She retreated even farther, those long white arms reaching out to her once again, suspending toward heaven, beckoning her, drawing her close with its siren’s song. Wendy recoiled. It was nothing like the incessant clicking of the mermaids from the Neverland. No, this sound lured her. The flowers fell at her side, her hands moving in a poor attempt to cover her ears, to block out its tempting voice. Though all in vain, when she heard it speak nonetheless:

 _Come, come to the water’s edge_ , it seemed to chant as it swam about languidly in the water, its beautiful hands, now web-fingered and clawed, adding life to its watery movements. _Drink of the river of forgetfulness, my pretty treasure. Drink. Drink, before 'tis too late._

Wendy frowned. _“Drink, before 'tis too late? Whatever do you mean? Too late for what?”_ she found herself questioning the mirrored image in the water, before drawing a hesitant step forward. She saw her twinned reflection smile, those sharp white teeth gleaming wickedly.

 _My sisters of the waters speak like whispers on the current. They foresee much, as they foresee your fate._ The reflection moved closer, a clandestine glint in one of its lidless black eyes. It laughed, finding that it had succeeded in upsetting Wendy, before whispering, _I, too, have also seen that of which they speak. It knows you are here. Even now, it has been waiting, waiting for you, storyteller,_ it replied, mockingly, and its quarry paled at the revelation.

“It knows of my stories?” Wendy echoed hollowly, before rejecting such an absurd possibility. “How could it possibly? I do not believe it—whatever it is—is even here. I do not even know what it is.”

 _Oh, but you do,_ her reflection countered. _And it knows of your stories. It waits for you, Wendy Darling. It **longs** for you, to take you with it, under the water, trapping you, never letting you go as you forever remain joined to it, pleasing it, submerged beneath it…_

Wendy blanched at the crude implication. _“It cannot possibly, for never have I heard of such contemptible…Oh, what would you know?”_ she huffed, turning away from her distorted, shadow self. “You are nought but a figment of my imagination, conjured by some wild fancy. You are not even real, as I am sure that this is only a dream.”

The reflection merely laughed. _You deny your own existence, how pragmatic of you. You think this but a dream, how unfortunate. You refuse to see the truth in what I say, as I am certain that it shall have a marvellous time with you, in proving all the difference!_

 _“How dare you?”_ Wendy rasped, infuriated when her dual opposite continued in its meaningless prattle. Losing all patience for its disjointed babble, she took up one of the many river stones, which had lain, neglected, at her feet. She stroked its smooth grey surface, its coldness leaching into her skin before casting it into the water. It barely upset the river itself—an insignificant drop in the water—and yet was enough to end her other half’s crazed ramblings. She almost smiled when it disrupted the water’s surface, her reflection bobbing along until settling once again into that collected mask of certainty. Wendy’s face fell, as she knew that she could no more rid herself of her reflection than she could of her shadow. _“Very well,”_ she murmured to her other self, half in resignation. _“If it is indeed your wish to give advice, then I shall grant you a chance to counsel me. You warn me of this impending force from which I must evade. What would you have me do?”_

The dark facsimile did not speak, only held up a cupped hand in answer, the water within the colour of straw-spun gold. It flickered, the ripples within capturing the starlight above. Wendy edged near it, though remained wary of this other self. “You wish for me to imbibe in that which you hold?” she questioned.

Her reflection smiled. _Drink,_ it said, speaking at last. _Drink, and you shall know of what pursues you._

And Wendy conceded, for so overcome she was by the voice and what it offered her that she drew near the water’s edge. Like an enchanted Hylas, a timid hand extended toward that rippling chalice of gold, those curious fingers barely gracing its sinuous, ever-changing surface. Shimmers of gold dripped from where her hand had touched the water, and Wendy marvelled at the sight of it—a hand of gold, a Midas touch—before turning to the one who held such wonder. She inclined her head in deference, and looked into the eyes of the creature which offered her guidance with its vivid blue stare—blue, not brown. Wendy gave pause, thinking once again, remembering. They were colour of the flower that adorned her hair—blue, as the forget-me-not. Blue, as she had seen in her vanity mirror—blue, like _his_ eyes…

_Oh, my God._

Her heart slowed in her chest, its beating almost drawing to a standstill. “No. No, it cannot be,” she whispered, horrified by the connection. She turned away from her reflection and its placid stare, denying the truth, doubting everything. “This cannot be real,” she muttered, her voice quavering in a vain attempt to sound rational.

She made to stand, to forget that which she had seen. Though before she could leave the water’s edge, she found herself restrained, her arms captured by the cold, watery hands of her deathlike twin. The water in its hand had all been a trick, an illusion made by this insightful creature to draw her near. Wendy trembled when it pulled her even closer, though not drawing her into the water fully. A hollow breath escaped her, and she belatedly realised that, unlike the Neverland’s mermaids, her other self had no intention to pull her down into the drink—not presently, anyway—as those cold, forget-me-not eyes instead reflected what she could not remember, forcing her to see what she had encountered before finding herself in this farce of a sanctuary; and she remembered—everything—before her world had faded to black. _As then I found myself here…_ she reluctantly acknowledged, looking to her captor for confirmation.

The reflection grinned in accord, those fishlike hands pulling her forward, drawing her close. Wendy nearly recoiled at their diaphanous, ichthyoid feel, though found it futile to free herself from that imprisoning hold. The darker half of herself granted her another smile. _Now, you know that which hunts you,_ it said, forcing an aggrieved Wendy to look into its now, dark-brown eyes. _He has long searched for you. Indeed, he has spent many years in trying to find you. And now that his search is over, and he has found you at last, he will not let you go. Ah, you remember, I see,_ it muttered, as if darkly pleased. _You remember everything._

 _“The mirror,”_ Wendy returned, a little forlornly. _“He was in the mirror all along, and I did not realise it until too late.”_

 _And now you know the truth,_ it concurred, a fishlike hand sliding over her arm in mock comfort. Such an unfortunate revelation for you, I am sure.

Wendy cast it a miserable look. _“What do I do now?”_ she asked, hoping for a means to escape her unavoidable fate.

Her reflection glanced at the space between them, where transient sea met solid earth, before meeting her gaze once again. _You wish to elude his very presence, to force him to leave. Oh, my dear girl, are you still the naïve child you were before casting your ill-fated eye upon him that first time in the shadows of that great and terrible castle? You were entranced by him then, taken in by his charms. I daresay he almost seduced you with that come-hither smile of his. Oh, do not bother to deny it; you cannot lie to me, no matter how hard you try to escape from the truth of it._

 _“You speak poisonous lies,”_ Wendy returned firmly. _“You only say such to deceive me.”_

 _Do I?_ it archly rejoined. _Or perhaps ’tis you, who speak the poisonous words of deceit. You lie to yourself; ever-doubting in the truth—even when it stands in a mirror before you!_ A single white hand rose in accusation. _’Tis probably better that he comes, if only to absolve you of your stupidity._

Wendy glowered at the reflection’s baleful remark, those soulful eyes narrowing into dark slits of rage. She threw another stone into the water, the treacherous likeness broken once again by the rippling current. _“You cannot compel me to face that which I do not wish to see, as I am sure there is a way to purge my life of him. There must be,”_ she avowed, before casting another stone into the water. _“You cannot make me do anything I do not want. You have not the power.”_ She stared in opposition at the river’s surface until the water receded, returning to the sleek, allaying surface it had always been.

And yet, her dread opponent was not there, as only darkness—where the twisted white figure had been—remained.

 _Perhaps it was only a dream, an allusion,_ Wendy thought, half-tempted to be taken in by the self-indulging fantasy. She watched the river’s surface, warily, before sighing in relief. Nothing. Only darkness. Sweet, pacifying, wondrous darkness. She almost smiled at the fact of it; for in her present delight, she took up a handful of the forget-me-nots at her feet, and cast them into the river. She inclined her head in deference to the watery body which openly embraced them in its meandering girth, as if in some pagan form of appreciation to whatever water-born spirit was responsible for her reflection’s absence. For there the flowers floated on the surface. Peaceful. Innocuous. A touch of melancholy in the hue of each as they floated downstream. Wendy smiled at their silent exodus, feeling a sense of satisfaction, in ridding herself of the dark reminder of a memory, best left forgotten. For all of them were gone now—carried beyond their storyteller’s limited sight.

All, but one.

As one remained amidst the winding dark tresses of her hair. A guarded hand fell over it, and Wendy vaguely considered casting it to the same fate as its brethren. She shook her head, the flower remaining unhindered, untouched by its mistress’ discerning hand. _I shall allow it to remain,_ she thought, finding that of her former fears exceedingly childish. There was no reason for her to be afraid—to be frightened by an illusion in the water; and as if to prove that all had been part of her imagination, she hovered over to where the illusory vision had dwelled. For there she had been, leaning—perhaps a little far—before two white hands broke through the water’s surface, blindly grasping her by the arms, before pulling her into the river—a fatal plunge into a world of darkness and despair.

Wendy cried out against her reflection’s sudden hold on her until that, too, was drowned out by the coursing river. She pulled at that cold, deathlike grip, fighting her way to the surface, struggling for breath. Though to no avail, could she escape as her reflection held firm, pulling her closer until both she and it were facing one another, a crude juxtaposition of good and evil. Her eyes widened when she saw the hideous likeness smile, those sharp teeth glinting in the blackened miasma surrounding them. Wendy nearly recoiled when it moved closer, pockets of precious air escaping to the surface when her reflection’s face was a scarce inch from her own.

It regarded her, wordlessly, before placing a sisterly kiss upon her cheek. _It comes now,_ it whispered quietly, furtively. _Fight it. Fright it, with every fibre of your being, Wendy Darling; for it will not yield so willingly to that which it desires most,_ it carefully advised, releasing her from its imprisoning hold before disappearing back into the shaded depths of the river.

Wendy’s eyes, though stinging from the river’s cold current, widened in disbelief. She had been freed by her other self; whereas such, she found herself once again left to the mercy of the river. She felt her lungs succumbing to the weight of it, her time almost up in its dark expanse, which housed a thousand unseen horrors and more. For God only knew what lay beyond her own hindered sight, the mass of stones and underwater reeds the only things remotely visible. She frowned at the sight of each as she tried to ascend to the river’s surface, but only found herself caught—not by her reflection—but by the natural plant life which resided in the river. She tore at the watery depths of her own subconscious, fighting desperately, the brambles and reeds tugging at her sodden skirt, twisting round her arms and feet, silencing those piteous, Ophelian screams, almost quenching that lovely voice before burying it in a silent, watery grave.

The storyteller in her fought against her imprisonment for as long as she could, however in vain. A shadow had begun to cloud her sight, the corners of her eyes falling to the darkness until only a fragment of her eyesight remained. She began to lessen in her movements, her arms drifting at her sides, limp and useless, like that of a rag doll. Her breathing became slow, shallow, faint under the water. She felt the bitter taste of Death looming before her, a yellow poison, virulent and deadly, slipping past those parted lips, like sweet ambrosia. The alleged drink of immortality—poison, to any mortal—quenched the light within, dousing it. Wendy sank to the bottom like a stone, the reeds and brambles covering her like a death shroud.

 _To die…to sleep—No more,_ she mordantly thought, that sightless gaze succumbing, giving in to that most unfortunate fate of death and dreams. She breathed out with one of her final breaths, and moved to touch the forget-me-not in her water-laden hair, half-surprised that it had remained throughout her struggle against one more powerful than she.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick._

She gasped in a hollow, choking whisper, her final breath wasted as that incessant ticking drew close. Wendy did not attempt to rise from her makeshift grave, the blackened hand of Death now rendering her inert, helpless.

Finding no other alternative she thus gave in to it, as she had known, deep within herself that, her screams, drowned out and guttered as they had been, could not save her from a tragic end. Something had been there, with her all along, in the water: swirling about, swimming, the tic, toc, tic, toc ticking, rumbling in the deep—a distorted requiem—as it came closer, nearer, before closing in around her. Wendy could not even muster the strength to acknowledge her own end, for already on the verge of death as she was, the water in her lungs weighing down the rest.

But her death would not be one of peace. No, her death would be one of agonising misery. She nearly cried out, convulsing in the final death throws of life as a thing of a most wondrous, terrible beauty claimed her for its own, capturing her in its monstrous jaws as it tore her away from the brush that had imprisoned her. It clenched her in between its massive teeth, where Wendy, feeling only a numbed shard of those sharpened daggers, came alive in the instant.

The pain had been unbearable, excruciating, as those teeth—dear God, those teeth!—closed in around her, consuming her in the instant. The flower in her hair died along with her cries, wilting, shrivelling to a purple, papier-mâché mass as her captor reared its ugly head—this Leviathan of a creature, brought into existence by some unseen hand—in barbaric held her close in the water, pulling her under—a perverse baptism—as it growled at her in triumph, looking at her lewdly, blasphemous in its intent.

_Did he who made the Tyger make thee?_

She vaguely considered the possibility of it, since she believed that only the fallen one’s hand could have fashioned the monster that now tormented her. For like a creature striped by both fire and shadow, she felt its teeth puncture her flesh, grinding into the bone. She nearly groaned at the pain it elicited; she would be nought but dust and ashes, if it continued in its pursuit to rend flesh from bone, tearing her soul asunder by its greed-stricken need to consume her.

Wendy’s face drew into a mask of defeat. The river would have no need to end her life; this scaled monstrosity would do so for it. The river would only harbour her remains—a grave without an epitaph—as it had always done for all sweet maidens in tragedy.

_Rosemary is for remembrance…_

Ah, but who would remember her, as she, a captive to the monster which held her in between its closed jaws, plummeted to a bottomless hell, sinking, falling to the blackened depths of oblivion? Wendy knew not the answer to her own fate. She could not; her free will had been forfeit the moment she had stepped into this creature’s nightmare world. She closed her eyes, ashamed of her own stupidity, as it was the first invocations of a nightmare, from which she would never awaken. And yet, she felt herself remaining in this world, a shred of life left in her. Her breathing returned and her vision cleared as she felt the lips of another upon hers—the breath of life—returning her to consciousness, and the world above.

The sudden feel of dry earth was shattering. And Wendy, for the first time since her plunge into the unknown, felt liberated from her watery prison. She breathed out in unsteady, quick short breaths as the monstrous entity, which had held her only moments before, was replaced the smooth embrace of humanity. She almost cried when a firm, yet gentle, hand lingered near her face, its deft movements soft, purposeful, those lips which had saved her now hovering close to her own.

 _You nearly drowned yourself, foolish as you were to wear such a frivolous gown, you realise. If I had not happened along, to see thy folly, thou wouldst have surely succumbed to whatever madness that drew thee to the river so carelessly,_ she heard him—for the voice was definitely masculine in its intonation—whisper in her left ear.

Wendy frowned at the soft-spoken admonition, and her eyes narrowed when she tried to perceive her saviour’s face. She saw a hint of a smile waver upon a strong, beautifully sculpted mouth, a dark moustache obscuring most of that imposing gesture. A shadowy mass of darkness framed most of his face in a wealth of curls, wet and unruly as her own dark hair, and yet suiting that noble-born brow. She had been rendered speechless by him, where only her eyes could express a fraction of the churning emotions that she assuredly felt: gratitude, uncertainty, wonder, curiosity. She felt much for this man whose name she did not know, whose eyes she had yet to meet.

Though to say that the storytelling part of her had been entranced would be an understatement; she had been completely taken aback, awestricken as she was by this man who had saved her from an untimely end. For indeed, Wendy had never seen such beauty in a man, for so overcome she was by this living entity which delivered her from death. She almost giggled at her girlish behaviour—surely he would disapprove of a momentary intrigue. And yet, in spite of the handsome visage now before her, it was upon seeing his eyes that compelled her to withdraw from that arresting touch.

She opened her mouth to cry out; but she could not speak, could not scream, her voice devoid of sound as the one who held her gaze spoke:

 _Oh, such an insightful wench you are, Wendy Darling,_ her saviour derided, that dreadful hook coming to where his hand once rested. He chuckled darkly as the truth of his appearance was made evident, his ghostly features returning in all of their gruesome horridity.

Wendy almost flinched when that all-too-familiar instrument caressed the side of her face, as that grim visage of his neared, almost capturing her mouth with his own, dead lips. “Captain, please,” she whimpered, fearfully, before turning away from the nauseating feel of his mouth.

Hook glowered at her evasion, undoubtedly disgusted as she was by the sight of him. A dead hand snaked behind her neck, coiling around the back of it, before tugging at her wet hair. He laughed when he caught her frightened gaze, relishing in her fear of him. _I should have dispatched thee, when I had the chance. I daresay I should have ended the beating of that merciless heart of thine long ago, selfish as you are to even thank me for saving thee from such a shameful fate as that with a crocodile, he muttered. And yet, I find it time for thee to awaken. Wake up, Wendy. Wake up, for I am here—even in thy thoughts and dreams—as there shall be no escape from me._

He received from her a torn look of acceptance, and a single tear fell in defeat, its crystalline beauty tainting that pale, ivory cheek. He grinned in triumph, that solemn look a soothing balm for that un-beating black heart. He pulled her close, her pounding heart resting against his silent one; for even amidst her pitiful, half-hearted protests, he held her—even closer than he had on that ill-fated night of his own passing. He placed a mocking kiss to her temple before whispering, _Wake up, Wendy Darling. Wake up, and see the truth before thee. Wake up, to thy cold and forgiving world and the harsh light of day. Wake up for me, my beauty._

_Wake up, wake up, wake up…_

…

“Wake up,” Wendy muttered to herself, her eyes opening once more to the world of the living. A single breath escaped from those tightly-drawn lips, the entirety of her body frozen in a state of apprehension. Unease filled her every waking movement, her nerves closely strung together, as if she were walking on a tightrope, stretched to the point of breaking. She scarcely felt conscious of her own existence, vague and insignificant that it assuredly was, though was aware of her invisible audience watching her, waiting for her to fall. She looked down at her hands—anywhere—but at the one place she knew he would be.

“I know you are there,” she muttered to the mirror in a half-uninviting whisper. She considered it for a moment, with its pristine silver surface and delicate oval framing it was indeed a beautiful furnishing, practically antique. Her mother had once claimed that it had once belonged to a lady of some noble-born family. Her Aunt Millicent had only superimposed the story by giving the lady a name, claiming it had come from one of their own line. As the Darling family, Aunt Millicent would time and again claim, was once part of a powerful noble family in the court of Richard the Lionheart.

Of course, her aunt’s claims were never proven as fact. And yet, whether the rumours of such an ancient heritage were true or not, it had intrigued her storyteller’s imagination for hours, for it was indeed an intriguing fantasy, just as the mirror had the ability drawn her gaze with its silent reflection. But oh, the unseen horrors that it held…

Wendy regarded it with a look of trepidation before turning her gaze to the window. She waited for a reply—a response of some kind—but received nothing. Only the looming stillness provided any basis of conversation, and Wendy was not in such desperate need to commence in speaking to the corners and empty spaces in her room. She needed no inanimate companion; she needed no one this morning.

Gazing down at her hands once more, she moved out of the foetal position in which she had presently held herself, and stood by the bed. She disregarded it altogether, with its tousled white sheets, left in terrible disarray. Oh, what would her mother say, if she were to see her daughter’s neglect of leaving it undone? Though even more, what would her Aunt Millicent think? Wendy grimaced at the consideration. _I care not what Mother would say, or for what even Aunt Millicent might think. I shall attend to it later,_ she thought offhandedly as she made to stand at the window.

A tired sigh escaped from her, the cold air the window emitted a comfort to her against the sun. She placed her face against it, and closed her eyes. Silence. Blessed silence. It was a fleeting comfort, which could not last. But for the moment, Wendy cared not, just as she cared not for the phantom dread weighing heavily upon her thoughts. She was half-willing to believe it all a dream, a terrible fantasy contrived in her desperation to escape from the inevitable call of adulthood. _I am not even given a choice in any of this!_ she mused in a despondent whisper. _I cannot even be what I wish, let alone choose someone whose company I enjoy, someone whom I could lo—_

 _A wakeful night, Miss Darling?_ an all-too-familiar voice derided from behind, as it continued in its relentless teasing of her. _Oh, how unfortunate. I should have imagined thee to have a…ah…sunnier disposition this morning. Truly, this dark look of thine does not become so fair a beauty. Indeed, Miss Darling, I thought thy behaviour upon seeing one who has longed to see thee last night…fainting at the very sight of me…It left me in a terrible position, having to place thee upon thy bed. Canst imagine what thy parents would have said, to see their daughter collapse at the sight of a well-meaning gentleman? And in such attire! I daresay I almost feared that thou wouldst catch thy death in such a garment. What possessed thee to wear such a frivolous thing?_

Shocked beyond speech, Wendy hastily covered her nightgown with a sheet. She looked down to the floor in utter humiliation, unable as she had been to face the man who had so baldly pointed out her state of undress. She coloured at the thought of his seeing her in anything less, for what if he had actually seen her…She dared not even consider the possibility as she reluctantly turned to meet her tormentor’s gaze in the mirror. He merely nodded to her greeting, thoughtful as he was to offer her the first word.

Wendy said nothing, however, as it puzzled her how he could be so calm, so infuriatingly at-ease when she was so terribly apprehensive. And yet, it had been he all along, who had put her abed. She could scarcely remember anything after seeing him. His appearance had both repulsed and frightened her—surely as it did even now. But the thought of him touching her…conjured a feeling of disgust more potent than of his kissing her in a nightmare. She glowered at him, despising that gloating expression. _“You,_ of all people,” she bit out in a harsh whisper, hating him all the more, for she was certain that he had been the cause of her nightmare.

He nodded to her in mock reverence. _Yes, I,_ he concurred, dryly. _You are surprised by my presence? I can come to thee in the day, as well. I am not restricted to only seeing thee in the night. Oh, do close that lovely mouth, Miss Darling; thou art bound to catch a fly if you keep it in such an unsightly position for long enough. Really, a beauty such as thee gaping at the sight of me,_ he snorted with a shake of that long dark mane. _I hazard to admit that I have left many a fair maiden bewildered in the past. But thou?_ he questioned with an imposing grin. _Fain would this cold, dead heart yearn to believe such a possibility! But then, ’twould be considered bad form, to bemuse such a lady,_ he mused and, adding with a rakish wink, _I should imagine thee to be immune from my charms, my beauty._

Wendy cast him a withering look. “I am **not** your beauty. I have never been, and will never be, Captain.” She shook her head at the absurdity of it, almost laughing at his grim-faced visage in the mirror. “You are nothing more than a black-hearted villain, come to torment me!”

The black-hearted villain in question, however, offered her another grin. _Oh, but you are!_ he countered. _Indeed, Miss Darling, you cannot bother to deny it, just as I cannot bother to deny such for myself. We have a history together, you and I, since 'twas **you** who came under my flag and became our storyteller. Dost thee not recall how you regaled my humble crew with a tale? They were completely besotted of thee—enraptured, if you will._

Wendy frowned at the recollection, for she did indeed remember the crew. How the eager they had been when they listened to her, how attentive…Even Smee was, if only in doing his captain’s bidding, taken in by her story. It had surely been a ruse to lure her to their side, to secure the whereabouts of Peter’s hideout; but it had been a wonderful feeling nonetheless, to finally feel needed, wanted. _But it had all been a lie,_ injected Wendy thoughtfully. _A clever pretence made by a vengeful Hook._

The truth of it grieved her, as the storytelling part of her—the part of herself that she loved so much—was, again, set aside. Only a careful acuity in gauging the captain’s true intentions could save her from his honeyed words of remembrance, for she would not be caught in his trap again.

Meeting his gaze, Wendy braved to look into those hazy forget-me-nots. “You speak of my presence on your ship as you would of a fond memory. I was but a child, Captain,” she returned frankly, boldly shrugging her shoulders in like civility. “I had no idea what it was to be in your service then, what it was that you offered. I know not why you are even here…” She almost faltered when she caught that insidious grin widen.

The spectre in the mirror feigned surprise. _Ah, do not be precious, my dear. I despise precious women, coquettish, heartless creatures that they are. I would not waste my time on thee if you were one of those wretched witches of society, as you already know why I am come,_ was his enigmatic response. _For didst thee not sense my coming on the winds of thy despair?_ He eyed her, critically. _You have been in want of company, as have I been in need of a good story._

A cynical laugh almost escaped from his quarry. “And that is all you desire, Captain, only a story?” Wendy echoed in disbelief.

The Captain tilted his head to the side, that torn, sodden mass of his crimson coat obscuring half of the mirror in diaphanous thought. _You are correct to assume that I require more than a mere story from thee, Miss Darling,_ he said at length, his cryptic tone making her inwardly recoil. He must have sensed her unease, for he gifted her with another of his disturbing grins, the hook sliding across the mirror’s surface, scratching it as he drew to the side. _I do require more than a story, as you shall know of what it is that I desire of thee soon enough._

“Soon enough?” reiterated Wendy impatiently, for she, having grown tired of his presence and his games, would deny him the pleasure in waiting. “I shall not wait, Captain, for I will have you tell the reason for your being here. Why have you come?” she questioned, glaring at his sallow countenance. “After all of these years, why have you come to me? _Why now?_ ”

That mocking grin she had come to despise faded in the instant, and was replaced with an even more frightening expression. It chilled her blood to even look at him, for so hollow, so dead those forget-me-not eyes were as they regarded her. It was as if he could stare into the very hollows of her soul and find nought but something as dead and lifeless as he. Wendy instinctively shuddered as that dead man’s gaze drew upon her, a foreshadowing of her own demise. For in that moment, James Hook was more frightening dead than when he had been alive.

“Captain,” she began, hoping to somehow avert that terrible gaze, though in vain, as Hook at last spoke:

 _Oh, Miss Darling,_ he returned, shattering her hopes, _thou knowest why._

Wendy shook her head, all confidence gone. “I am sure I do not.”

A disdainful snort countered her guarded response. _Ever the needful child, in want of instruction, I see. Then allow me to absolve thee of thy ignorance,_ he ventured, a callous offer, as he drew himself to his full height.

The mirror barely contained his massive frame, though he managed his limitation well, as he smiled grimly when he saw Wendy retreat a step. He almost laughed at her sudden evasion of him; for in the many years he had spent in wandering among the shadows of the living, did he find that Wendy Darling was still a child in many ways. He could only marvel at the irony in her plight to remain a child, when even her own body had betrayed her. She had deluded herself into believing a part of her childhood would exist—even when she had abandoned all hope in returning to the Neverland. Peter had allowed her to believe in such an ill-contrived fantasy, and Hook could only thank the boy for his childish stupidity. Pan had been most unkind to keep their storyteller waiting on so frail a hope. He would not allow her the same discourtesy.

He nodded to her in all gentlemanly fashion, where a grim smile lingered in the wake of his words. _And so you wonder why I have come to thee, of all people, Miss Darling,_ he muttered, his hook pressed rigidly against the mirror’s edge. There are many reasons for my sudden and most unexpected intrusion upon thy life, I am sure, but there is one reason for which I cannot deny, since thou art the reason for my coming.

Dark eyes countered his as his voice drew her toward the mirror. He said her name, repeatedly: _Wendy. Wendy. Wendy Darling_. And yet, the sound of it never grew old or dull, his voice the antithesis of his horrid appearance; for whether Wendy wished to accept the truth or not, she was caught in a state of perilous fascination, wholly transfixed by the voice that had haunted her in her youth.

“And what reason would that be, Captain?” she queried, bravely, as she stood in front of the mirror. “Why have you come here, to me, after all of this time?”

He gave her a droll look. _And why would I not, if not to see how beautiful and becoming thou hast become?_ he rejoined, drawing nearer to her, those luminous forget-me-nots uttering his words before he spoke them. _I have wanted to see thee,_ he reiterated, calmly. _For how could I not be drawn to such timeless beauty, and hope to be remembered by such an arresting creature? I had honestly feared that the great Wendy Darling would be the same as that foolish, inconstant, ever-forgetful Peter Pan,_ he spat out Peter’s name as he would a poisoned draught. _But no, unlike Pan, you have not forgotten me, as I simply wish to repay thee for thy every kindness shown to thy ever-faithful Captain Hook._

“There is no need to repay me for anything,” answered Wendy, a little too abruptly. She silently scolded herself for speaking so hastily—even to one considered very much dead, not to mention a former enemy—when he had claimed to having wanted to see her for so long. In a way, his words had affected in ways she dare not consider, for fear of what such might foretell. She gave her head a mental shake, putting it from her mind completely, before returning her attention to the man before her. “Forgive my impertinence, Captain, as I surely mean no offence, but I require nothing in payment,” she said, in all polite rejection.

Hook’s sceptical look, however, countered that hollow demurral. _Oh, but you do,_ he objected, just as courteously, a menacing grin lingering at the right-hand corner of his mouth. A dark, shadowy length of an arm escaped from the mirror then, and Wendy almost screamed as it tore the sheet away from her and encircled her waist. She trembled, her only barrier of decency lost, as that dreadful appendage pulled her forward, forcing her to acknowledge its owner. Hook looked down, noting her frightened expression, and he laughed. _There is much on my part for which to repay,_ said he, as his shadowy hand pulled her closer to the mirror’s edge. _I dare confess that I find myself wholly indebted. To say it kindly, my dear: you murdered me, and I have no intention to leave thy company quite so soon._

Wendy shuddered at the feel of that cold, dead arm, doubt overshadowing that ivory countenance like a pall. “I never forced you into the jaws of that terrible crocodile,” she returned, trying to escape, yet failing miserably as he held her tighter.

 _Ah, but you did chant me to my doom,_ he reminded her. _Oh, what was it that you said? Ah, yes! I remember!_ He advanced on her, eyeing her darkly, forcing her closer. She was barely an inch away from the mirror, barely an inch away from him as his mouth descended, a breath of a whisper away from hers. _You remember what was said; you remember it as well as I. And yet, I suppose I am not so old, alone, and done for as you first believed,_ he mused, a crude whisper, the enormity of his demise falling upon her captive shoulders like a deadened weight.

Guilt suffused Wendy’s torn features, her voice as silent and profound as the grave that surely encased his rotting corpse. He had made a point—a point in which she, in her naïveté, never considered in her youth. Did he speak truly in the cause of his death? Had her words sealed his fate, even before his demise in the gorge of that mindless crocodile? Dear God, if so, then she would be accountable for his death. It was almost too much for her to bear, where, admitting defeat, Wendy at last succumbed to that crushing will. “What do you want from me, then?” she asked in a terrified whisper.

The Captain only smiled. _There are many things that I want from thee, as there is surely one thing I desire from thee most of all. Oh, I daresay that thou shall certainly learn of it, for you and I shall be together for a very, very long time, Miss Darling._ He laughed at her horrified expression, for Wendy knew that this inconvenient happenstance in Hook’s return, and the feelings of guilt and despair derived from it, only foretold that this story—one that she would surely, never have considered telling to her brothers—was far, far from over.


	4. Shattered by a Haunting Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy goes to Church (where sanctuary is usually found), and then, once back home, goes to her mother's drawing room where she studies the concept of forgiveness from a Bible for the rest of the afternoon. But that doesn't stop Captain James Hook - not one bit at all...

For true to his word, the Captain had remained as constant and unrelenting in his haunting Wendy as if he were a second shadow. He followed her everywhere, unremitting, tireless, pursuing the Neverland's storyteller as a wolf would its hapless prey, his presence in anything that cast a reflection. She had been subdued by his constant hounding of her. Unable to sleep, let alone dress in the privacy of her room, she had been reduced to a few, precious hours of escape through dreams. _Though even then, he has been there, waiting for me,_ thought Wendy, helplessly. She had barely managed to leave her bed; for in the two days of finding herself haunted had she also found a semblance of peace, where such had been in the form of finding sanctuary in the House of God.

It was Sunday morning, and St. George's bells tolled like a beacon to a ship lost in a tempest; whereas always, like their neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Darling would make it a weekly pilgrimage for the family to attend the nearby church. And as always, Nana herded Wendy and her brothers as she would a flock of sheep, making for certain that her charges were done-up and dressed properly. The old nurse had been far more meticulous in her dressing them, compared to their Aunt Millicent, since the dear old woman never fretted over the attire of those whom she considered to still be very much children—boys, really. Only Wendy mattered. Only Wendy, since she was the eldest, and, by virtue of her own sex, a young woman.

As such, Wendy had been the last to follow in that great long line, notwithstanding the fact that she was indeed the oldest of her siblings. Wendy did not mind, however; she never felt begrudged in any way to be last. In truth, she could pay more attention to her surroundings, since she did not have to worry that one of her brothers might stumble against her. She could take in those passing by, take in the city itself, and the sights it had to offer in the short distance it took to reach the church. She admired the everyday actions of those buying and selling, walking and standing that she so often beheld among the crowded streets. Most, however, since today was the Lord's Day, were dressed in their Sunday's finest, as they made their way to that which fell in line with their personal beliefs.

For among them, like Wendy's family, there were those loyal to the Crown's faith, others to that of Rome's, and then there were, of course, those considered part of the dissenting Nonconformist churches—Presbyterians, Quakers, and the like, traitors, rebel-rousers, who were against that hallowed institution that Henry VIII had indoctrinated upon his break from Rome. A Catholic king had not sat upon the English throne since James II; and as far as the Royal Family was concerned, there would never be another to follow by James II's almost disastrous example.

Either way, Wendy only knew of a few of her schoolmates whose families were Catholic. She had the not pleasure of knowing a Nonconformist, however. _Unless I consider Mr. Smee as being among my acquaintances,_ she thought amusedly, and considered her family's reaction if they realised her association with a Nonconformist who was also, in turn, a pirate! For out of all of those in Hook's dreadful crew, Smee had been the kindest of them, and Wendy could not find it within herself to hold anything against the old bo'sun who had once offered to save her. _He only wanted me to be his mother._

Shaking her head, she smiled down when she saw Nana at her side. It was the first real smile she had since…

There was no point in thinking about it—not now, anyway—since, for the first time in two days, she felt as if she could finally breathe. She ignored anything that cast a reflection, keeping her eyes averted to the pavement instead. It was the safer choice, of course. She turned her head when she saw a flicker of something dark—a shadow of another pedestrian, perhaps—in a puddle as she passed it.

It was nothing, surely; just a figment of her imagination. She almost laughed at her momentary fear. Almost. There was still the dilemma of her unwanted visitor she had yet to resolve. She shook her head, her expression darkening in thought. How on earth would she rid herself of him? Even now, she felt him with her, following her, those dead, hollow eyes ever watchful. She almost muttered an unladylike oath, but had the good sense to keep her inner vexations silent. It would not do for her if Nana were to hear such language—and on the way to church, especially. Instead, she turned attention to what lay before her, the church she and her family attended now in sight.

Wendy gave it a cursory glance, with its vaulting high steeple and greying parapets of stone. Rather dark and gothic, if the truth were known. And something in which even Catherine Morland would find, most appealing in her stories of gothic romance. Wendy smiled to herself. She looked up, toward the steeple and admired its stone-faced inhabitants—emblems of the Crown—with a hint of awe.

The Lion and the Unicorn looked down gloomily upon her, their greyscale figures more humane than the impassive Hanoverian king perched high above them. For there the former monarch stood: cold and grey and clad in pagan Rome's attire, his stone feet resting stolidly on an edifice built in the likeness of a Carian king's earth-shattered tomb—a cheap imitation of a former world wonder that most, in their ignorance, could never hope to replicate—though was certainly arresting in its striking composition nonetheless.

The storyteller shook her head. For although the structure was in poor emulation of Queen Artemisia's final gift to her dead husband, having not the grandeur, nor the sentiment behind the loss of a much beloved king and consort, it mattered little to those who entered unto its hallowed domain. No one within the congregation drank from the ashes of the dead, since most would had deemed such a mournful act too sacrilegious for a Christian ritual.

In a way, however, Wendy found the thought of drinking a loved one's ashes…almost romantic.

The neighbours would oppose such considerations with the contrary, surely. Drinking a dead loved one's ashes. What poppycock! The idea in and of itself was completely absurd, if not outside the boundaries of what was considered proper, civilised behaviour. It was abnormal, if not heretical, pagan—shamefully so. But then, Wendy, too, perhaps, had never been one to be considered normal. The thought of it remained with her as she took her seat beside of John and commenced in hearing the rector's sermon.

For the lesson itself, though filled with the grave importance in having the goodwill to save those lost from themselves, fell like a throng of blunted arrows against Wendy's thoughts. She half-listened to the rector, passively acknowledging his message in abstaining from evil, and living an honest, godly life. Wendy almost frowned. Good God, as if she had never heard that before!

She inwardly questioned whether the rector, a kindly old man of seventy-four, ever brought anything new to his weekly sermons. She almost believed—though such was surely considered, most irreverent, in the eyes of the church—that he had covered almost every subject in his many years of studying the Bible. Wendy's internal suffering did nothing to alleviate her present mood, foul and overwrought with torment as it was. Though strangely, the presence that she had felt around her was absent. _As if he is not here…_

The possibility of such was alarming, if not secretly welcomed.

And so, more attentively, Wendy listened to the rector's words, indulging herself in the momentary peace that came with every heightened syllable. She allowed herself to fall into the comfort of his sermon, the rest of her family, surely, listening with utmost attention. But it was the lesson itself, perhaps, that captured Wendy's interest. For as she listened, she realised that the old rector's words affected her on a more personal level than she had ever imagined possible.

The concept of forgiveness had always been in her thoughts, lingering—somewhere—in the back of her mind, though never to this degree.

The old rector, however, was ignorant of this secret revelation, where his withered hands—riddled with arthritis, long accustomed to the long, midnight hours of transcribing the sacred Word—turned to the page he sought. He looked up at his silent audience, those sharp grey eyes giving everyone a sweeping glance before returning to that which lay before him.

"As such, let us now turn to the Book of Romans," he said, whilst a pious few turned to the book held in their own Bibles, although, like Wendy, most instead listened as he continued on after a moment. "Sin is something that occurs every day, for as the great and selfless apostle, St. Paul, warns us never to stray from the Path of Righteousness, we also must be wary of anything which may seek to divert us.

_"Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them. Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things."_

He gave pause, his eyes shifting away from the sacred text, to the sea of faces whose mixed reactions bore the expected effect of awe and tedium. He inwardly sighed. "As we must consider the fruits and labours of sins, let us now consider the cost, since sins vary in the price of one's soul. Lies and betrayal, as with Judas, compel us to recall his fate, one whom our Lord and Saviour deemed that 'twas better that he had never been born; for had he not murdered our blessed Lord himself? Sweet, poisoned words, combined with a treasonous kiss, had sealed our Saviour's fate to die a lowly criminal's death. For lest we forget Judas and his treachery, we must also look inside of ourselves, and see the traitor we've long hidden from the eyes of men."

Those who sat remained in heavy silence.

And the rector continued, those wizened hands spread wearily over the Word of God.

"All sins and transgressions, though perhaps unknown to those whom we are closest, are known to God. Every lie, every wrongdoing is known—even those we've long forgotten in our childhood, which are locked away in our memories. We cannot pretend that they do not exist. Nor can we delude ourselves in what we see when we stand in front of a mirror, since a mirror reflects truth, where all outward appearances strive to conceal it." He inclined his head, those grey eyes falling upon the centre of the congregation, to where Wendy sat. He gave her a faint smile before adding, "Our youth, though innocent and beautiful in its transient existence, can nevertheless be devastating in its naïveté as an adult who commits murder, since children can also fall from grace. We are responsible, even in our youth, for the sins that we may commit. For sin is sin, and we are left forever haunted by those we have wronged—the need for absolution long since past—as forgiveness can sometimes come, all too late."

Wendy paled as his words faded away to a grim, deadened silence. She watched him close the thick, white, golden-edged tome, the sermon over. She vaguely heard the muttered whispers among the congregation as the service concluded with its Sunday ritual, scarcely acknowledged the solemn dirge which played in the background of her thoughts, her mind beset with fear and worry, the state of her soul in more jeopardy, than when it had been before she'd entered unto the hallowed, sanctified domain of her Saviour.

For even now, as she walked out of the church with her family in silence, she doubted that Christ Himself would save her.

...

She said nothing on the journey home, merely nodded her head when someone spoke in her direction, keeping her eyes away from the shop windows and anything that dare cast a reflection. She could not afford to look up, no matter the pouring rain, lest she see what already haunted her in her own dark musings—a dark figure, as pale as death and as black as sin, with a burning need for vengeance.

Even now, she could feel the heat of his wrath upon her as it nullified the cold, driving rain. She shuddered underneath her wool coat; her sodden figure doing nothing to quell her inner turmoil. Nor did it allay the internal war which raged inside of her mind. She felt faint, her heart beating rapidly as she came a step closer to the darkness that awaited her. For Wendy knew that he was waiting; there was no question of that, just as she dreaded the outcome of such a confrontation.

She tried not to think of it, her meagre attempt in thinking of a story to tell her brothers failing miserably as treasonous thoughts of a dread pirate captain and his undead crew flooded her imagination. Wendy was taken in the instant, where a ghostly vessel, with its ominous black and crimson sails, treaded the waters of her subconscious. Bawdy songs—surely inappropriate for a lady's ears—collided against the ocean's waves, the crew's toil on deck joining in with the chorus, their minds oblivious to all, save for the task in hand.

She saw Bill Jukes, his dark tattoos stretched across his faded skin; Alastian Foggerty, who still had a few of the Indians' arrows imbedded in his chest and stomach; the Italian Cecco and the mortal stab wound Peter had inflicted—which was enhanced by the bloody shirt he wore—boasted a shared lament among a fallen crew. She did not see Mr. Smee, to join in their otherwise merry song.

From a distance, it would have been a most intriguing sight, although there was one who did not accompany the raucous melody, however; that sole occupant instead playing the part of an observer, as a pair of hazy, forget-me-not eyes looked on, hopelessly lost in thought. Darkness resonated from his noble stature, a melancholy emptiness accompanying it. He imparted nothing from those frowning lips, only silence and the shadows remained where happiness and laughter had once been.

The hem of his torn red coat—which had surely, as with the ship and its crew, seen better days—fluttered in accord with his long dark hair in the wind. His solitary hand, bejewelled with rubies and fine emeralds, clutched the mouldering railing, as a hook, brilliant in its iron casing, glinted dangerously at his side. He was the very image of what a pirate captain should be—a striking personification which breathed reality into Wendy's darkest dreams—since he was a man, a man who, if one looked closely, had somehow broken out of his dark reverie, that dark head turning toward the horizon—east, to where the living dwelled—as a storyteller's gentle voice was heard over the crashing waves and the aching stillness of his cold, dead heart, his eyes focusing on her, burning her mind's eye with their intensity.

_Wendy. Wendy Darling..._

Wendy gasped, bewildered by what her thoughts had conjured; for it was a dark image her mind painted, and was one to be viewed with caution, if not forbidden to be entertained. She half-believed it an impression from the one whose face she saw, his voice breaking through the hazy miasma of her own, silent misgivings. She could hear him in her thoughts, could feel him at her side, as he stared at her, in everything which cast a reflection. She even felt him in the rain when it pelted against her, that cold, icy feel making her shudder as it reminded her of the cold iron of his hook. She wanted to cry out, but forced herself to remain silent until she found herself alone—in the sanctity of a room which did not boast a courtly looking glass.

_Where is my storyteller?_

She was the first through the door—after her mother and father, respectively—upon her return to No. 14. Later, she would recall, if vaguely, having thrust her coat in Liza's awaiting arms, her muddy shoes tucked haphazardly near the door. But in the meantime, she disregarded her mother's concerned look when she muttered a need for privacy, whereupon she barricaded herself in the sitting room, a book, which she had blindly grasped from one of the end tables—her only excuse for being there as she sat down, next to the grandfather clock, which ticked away the seconds of her life.

Her mother and the rest of her family left her to her own devices, though each, surely, questioned her strange behaviour. She could almost sense their confusion, though she could not blame them; she hadn't been herself in days now. Nevertheless, she compelled herself to regain a sense of her lost composure, her wet hair and dress doing little to subdue the chill she'd felt when entering the house. She ignored her discomfort, however, as it was only when she found herself able to breathe, that she looked down and beheld what book her hands held. A Bible. How fitting. She almost laughed at the strange twist of fate. Doubly damned and feigning piety. How terribly ironic.

She snorted at the irony, since she had indeed been perfect in her rôle as Hook's storyteller; for was she not every bit as dark and cruel and mercenary as he? He had committed crimes, innumerable to the imagination, where murder and a love of stories were two things they shared in common.

Murder and storytelling.

Their shared interests pained Wendy beyond imagination. And yet, in spite of any feigned cry of childish ignorance, she was guilty—for murder, anyhow. She had been responsible for his death—granted, he was a pirate, and probably deserved it—just as she, alone, had contributed to his condemnation thereof before he fell to the unrelenting jaws of that damned crocodile.

_Old, alone, done for._

She shuddered at his reminding her of it, for had she not eagerly chimed in with that last, all-too-condemning acknowledgment? God, how she now regretted even considering it. _Perhaps he would still be alive if I hadn't thought of it, much less uttered it._

The possibility of his continued existence aboard the Jolly Roger brought forth another wave of doubt, since she knew that such, perhaps, should have remained, for where would Peter be without Captain Hook? Dead, certainly. As Wendy so acutely recalled, the Captain was on the verge of running Peter through with his hook without a moment's hesitation. Had she and the others had thus not been justified in ending his miserable, pathetic life?

Wendy had no answer, although she felt that they hadn't been—that some higher authority, greater than they, had that solitary right. For if such was indeed true...She dared not consider the repercussions.

Instead, she turned away from all thoughts of condemnation and hell and looked to the heavy word resting on her lap. Her hands lingered over its gilt etching, those slight fingers reverently beseeching the Word of God. She considered the Bible's leather-bound exterior, as if in supplication to a material form of the divine.

It had been her Grandfather Darling's—a veritable saint in his own right—who never committed the lowly sin of murder. _No, his granddaughter could only do such a terrible thing as that,_ she thought wretchedly, and her hands tightened around the Bible, her fingers digging into its leathery surface.

A breath escaped her, and her head fell forward as she prayed for absolution from the darkness that haunted her. She sputtered out half-whispered prayers she'd known since childhood—anything, to acquire that which she sought. _Almighty and most merciful Father, I have erred...most terribly._

She prayed for the better part of an hour, before finally having the courage to seek guidance within the book before her. Her hands shook when she forced herself to read from the New Testament, to read that which was spoken from the Christ Himself. She cared not for what any of the apostles had to say; she ignored Peter entirely.

Her search took her well into the night as she studied everything on the notions of sin and forgiveness. She read of Christ's miracles and the pardoning of sins until her eyes hurt; but even then, she refused to abandon her search. She would read until she fainted from exhaustion—anything, to put off from her going upstairs, to that room. She would sleep in the sitting room if she had to, as she knew, if secretly, that he would not enter this newfound sanctuary; the grandfather clock would not allow it.

She cast the massive clock a look of gratitude, before returning to that which held the answer she sought. She considered Christ's miracles—most especially his ability in casting out demons. He had even forced some into the bodies of swine, before sending them into the sea to drown. The thought of such intrigued her, since exorcism, though not widely practised in the church, was performed if the need arose. The ability to expel an otherworldly presence that both tormented and afflicted had not been solely regulated to the papist cloth, since that God-given ability had not been given only to men who answered to a mortal representative of Christ in Rome. Men of the Church of England had that ability, and it was to their good counsel she should seek.

_Though to go so far as exorcising him..._

Would she condemn his soul to the everlasting fires of hell, or her own?

Christ's teachings had been vague in that regard.

Wendy looked down at her hands. He had been both kind and terrible, thoughtful and manipulative. She could not easily forget the faint look of hope in his eyes, when he said that there was still room for a storyteller. Nor could she deny the anger he must have felt when she forthrightly rejected him, claiming boldly that she would rather die—a claim he gladly accommodated—than to submit her life to him. She shook her head, her troubled expression contorted with her past self. She had been such a child then. Not yet thirteen, and she had caused a world of heartache—not only inspiring her parents' worry, but also betraying that which had been inherently Wendy Darling. She'd fallen in love with a wistful boy made of the very childhood essence of fantasy and faerie dust.

She shook her head. What she had shared with Peter had been of her own imagination, since he would never grow up—not even for her, his storyteller.

As for the other...He had been kind to her; she could not allow herself to forget that. And now he was in her room, waiting for her. She'd sensed his presence for hours, had felt him growing restless in the mirror. For even in the sanctity of the drawing room, she felt bound to the darkness that composed such a striking figure as Captain Hook, her fate ineluctably tied with his. And she knew, deep within herself, that she could not escape him forever. She would have to face him.

But not tonight.

No, tonight another voice beckoned her. As Wendy, in the midst of her own reluctance, fell to the powers of that alluring voice in mid-thought, her dreams unwillingly returning to that rough, cobblestone path she had traversed the night before, to the river where she'd almost drowned, as the voice which called her was her own.

...

There was no surprise in Wendy's eyes when she came face-to-face with her distorted reflection. She noticed the forget-me-nots she had dropped the previous night, her reflection also noticing.

 _They're beautiful, are they not?_ it queried with a furtive smile. _You should put them in your hair. Perhaps they will not wilt as the others did. That is, if you take care not to drown them._

Wendy glowered at its rippling grin. _"I see that you've decided to subject me to another nightmare. And yet, I shall take care to distance myself from that which may compel me to join you."_

The pool reflected her other self's smug expression, its sharp teeth enhancing its macabre delight. _I see that you've learned your lesson from last night,_ it said primly. _I am certain that you enjoyed every moment, since you could not abstain from revelling in your saviour's embrace after he saved you from that monstrous crocodile._

Wendy snorted. _"Wretch! You know very well that they're one in the same. I nearly lost my life because of him!"_

 _But he saved you, as well, did he not?_ her reflection countered. _It appears that you still look at only half of which completes such a complicated figure._

"Complicated does not even begin to describe that man," Wendy deadpanned, her arms crossing in irritation. "You cannot even imagine what I've suffered because of him."

Her reflection tilted its head forward, as if in agreement. _Oh, but I can. I know very well what you've suffered, although I believe you've suffered even more from your own conscience than what the Captain has ever said or done. Murder is a most atrocious sin, certainly, and now you've found yourself guilty of it. You've even sought to penance yourself away by seeking out answers in your grandfather's Bible. Oh, don't look so surprised; I know everything about you, just I know what you're presently thinking. Do you honestly believe that cloistering yourself away in the sanctity of your mother's drawing room will absolve you from that which is presently awaiting your return? I've only postponed his coming, and there is little time left until he comes into this realm._

Wendy paled at her reflection's warning. _"Oh, dear God,"_ she muttered. _"Will I never escape him?"_

Her other half moved in the water, its tepid movements slow and indifferent, its carefree air welcoming in its invitation for Wendy to join it. She had the good sense not to heed it this time, as she instead kept herself at a safe distance away from the water's edge. She then posed her question again, her desperation for an answer drawing laughter instead of sympathy.

 _Still so desperate, still so fearful,_ it chimed in with a mocking song. _You don't even know what it is that you desire answered. You merely broach me with questions and conjectures and what-ifs; you never facilitate that which you truly want._

 _"And what would that be, pray tell?"_ Wendy ground out, losing all semblance of civility. _"Since you already know what it is I truly desire, then please do enlighten me, for I am quite left in the dark."_

Her reflection stared at her, those hollow dark eyes meeting hers, its serene expression countering her frown. _You desire for him to stay,_ it stated simply. _For that is your secret wish, is it not? For no matter what you say or claim otherwise, you know the truth. You've known since the first time you saw him in the Black Castle._

Wendy shook her head. _"That is simply not true,"_ she contested fervently, as if trying to persuade her reflection to reason. _"I may have been fond of him, yes, but I never...I've no desire for a man like James Hook to stay with me."_

 _And yet, you now call him by his Christian name and not by his title,_ it remarked. _Oh, see how you blush! I know you, Wendy Darling, I know you, even more than you know yourself._

 _"But I cannot have him taking up residence in my mirror!"_ Wendy objected in a frantic cry. _"You know as well as I—about what happened when he captured my brothers and I. You remember what he tried to do to us—to me!"_

 _And yet, he also offered you a place on his ship,_ the reflection pointed out, pragmatic in its accusation. _Or have you forgotten that, as well?_

The storyteller in Wendy bristled in contempt. _"He was mocking me."_

 _All the same,_ her reflection replied, its watery movements languid, nonchalant, _he did offer, and you denied him. Think you that wise? Will you deny him anything else he offers, when next you two meet?_

Wendy's expression turned grave. _"There will not be another meeting. I shall find a way to rid myself of him; for even if I have to shatter that mirror into a thousand pieces, I will not be made to endure his dreadful company a moment longer. I cannot bear it!"_

Her reflection raised a questioning brow. _That is your solution, then, breaking a mirror?_ It had the audacity to laugh. _How simple you are, my other,_ rational _half!_

Her other, rational half, however, gave a most unpleasant snort. _"Then what would you have me do? You never gave me the advice you promised,"_ Wendy retorted dryly. _"How can I manage never seeing him again?"_

The reflection took on a thoughtful look, its studious expression a vision to behold. _You must accept responsibility for your actions, as there is no cause without consequence, Wendy Darling._

Wendy made a face, frustrated by the useless wisdom it imparted her. _"Accept responsibility?"_ she reiterated, doubtfully. _"I was but thirteen! A mere girl! He was a pirate—a vile reprobate and a murderer, for heaven's sake—who has committed far worse crimes than I! He's even killed some of his own crew."_

But her reflection would not be swayed. For there it remained, suspended before her, unmoved by the reasons Wendy provided it. _And yet, you are guilty in the same regard. For even in your youth, you knew that taking a man's life was wrong. He is merely demanding recompense—something in which you must pay, as hiding away in your mother's drawing room and reading a Bible will not prevent you from what you rightly owe him. Do you think Christ reneged on the debt He paid for those unworthy of Him? You are far less worthy, Wendy Darling._

 _"God help me,"_ Wendy murmured quietly. She leaned forward then, daring to face her reflection as she beseeched it reflection one, last time. _"Is there no other way? Is this how it must be?"_

 _You cannot escape him,_ it declared. _You must face him._

Wendy shook her head, half-reluctant to accept her fate. _"And what if I cannot? What if I am not strong enough? London is not the Neverland, you understand, and Peter is not here."_ She sighed then, as if pained by a sudden revelation. _"I've no wish to face him alone. But then, I cannot afford to bring my brothers into this, either. What if he decides to go after them, as well? I cannot risk him hurting them. No, I am completely alone in this,"_ she stated in a determined whisper, but then felt a cold hand fall upon her face. She turned, looking into the face of her own reflection, the ugliness replaced by the true beauty that had been there all along.

Her reflection smiled. _I am not so horrid to look upon, as I am you,_ it assured her, most tenderly, its hand falling away from Wendy's face. _We never know what path we should take, or where such will eventually lead us. We know not what fate is ours until the very end, when life is cut too short by ever-patient Death. But you must know one thing, Wendy Darling. Remember, I am the reflection of your own self: beautiful or hideous however you come to make of me internally, I am what you see in yourself in the mirror,_ it carefully advised, its hold on her lessening, waning like a hunter's moon, until freeing her of its spell completely. gave Wendy a final smile before disappearing into the river's darkened abyss, a faded fragment of a dream.

 _And nothing more,_ Wendy concluded thoughtfully, taking up a few of the discarded forget-me-nots into her hands. She caressed their fragile petals with her fingertips, their softness impressing a faint smile upon her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in their sweet scent, for once finding a semblance of peace. They almost made her forget the hell she had suffered for the past week, almost obliterating her memories entirely. She almost forgot the moment she first beheld the dark figure which haunted her every waking thought, his eyes as cool and as beautiful as the flowers she now held. She wanted to forget how beautiful they truly were, just as she wanted to forget those phantom arms that had held her in this godforsaken limbo as they moved to hold her even now.

She did not have to open her eyes to see who was standing behind her; she knew already.

"Captain," she acknowledged neutrally, and she turned to face him. "What a pleasant surprise."

The frown he bore did nothing to allay the horror of his decomposed features. _Quite,_ he muttered in return, though he was far from agreement. _It is indeed a pleasure to see you, Miss Darling. After being in thy absence today, I felt that something untoward had befallen you. And so, I daresay I am relieved to find you in the state in which I last saw thee._ He cast her a withering look, completely devoid of any outspoken relief. Wendy nearly flinched when he seized her arms, forcing her to look at him. _Don't feign to play the wronged heroine, my beauty; it doesn't suit thee. I trust your little attempt in hiding yourself away from me went well._

Wendy made a face. So, this was how it was going to be. _Very well,_ she resolved. She would play his little game; she had nothing else better to do, anyhow. Standing to full height, which was, assuredly, dwarfed by the Captain's stature, she met his seething gaze, her expression darkening in sheer defiance. "I enjoyed my time away from you immensely. I certainly wasn't saddened by not having the pleasure of your company, since there are others, far more engaging and wonderful than you." She had the audacity to laugh at his faltering expression. "I never missed you for a moment, Captain. Though if it's any consolation, I did spare you a thought or two."

Silence overcame the conversation, dominating the moment. Wendy almost believed that she had stunned him with her venomous retort, rendering him silent. But oh, how wrong she was.

Hook instead destroyed that fleeting hope, shattering it with his own, damning response. _A thought or two, Miss Darling?_ he queried, a dark brow raising in mutual accord. _How kind of you. I'd honestly expected you not to think of me at all, given how you have a tendency to think only of yourself._

She scoffed at him. "You conceited wretch. It wasn't as if I wanted to think of you!" she ground out, no longer caring for maintaining her dignity. She was in the presence of a pirate, and thus, did not have to afford him the luxury of a lady's courtesy.

Hook smiled regardless, as if pleased by her outburst. _Language, Miss Darling,_ he chided her playfully, and laughed when he saw her irritation. _My, my, what a tongue you have acquired, in my time away! I never would have expected it of thee, as I recall how prim and proper—the very image of perfection—you were, when you refused to join my humble crew. I certainly never expected the lady standing before me, no matter her unladylike tongue._

Wendy looked away. "It seems that you never expected many things," she returned, vague in her response. She felt his hand come to her face, his touch oddly gentle as he urged her to look at him. She almost blushed. "C—Captain, I—I never meant," she said, stumbling over her words in spite of herself. She almost gasped when she saw felt him pull her against him, his face resting coolly against hers.

 _Shh,_ he whispered into her ear, and he silenced her half-trembling pleas with his hook, pressed tenderly against her lips. _Not a word, dear one. Indeed, 'tis best for thee not to speak at all, lest you want that pretty throat of thine cut._ He saw the look of fear in her eyes, a touch of hurt issuing through their dark depths and smiled cruelly. _It was foolish of you to hide yourself from me. Think you I wouldn't have found a way to thee in that pathetic shame thy mother deems a drawing room? You seem surprised. You shouldn't be, considering that I know very well where you hid yourself, he muttered coldly. And I can assure you, Miss Darling, that clock and those of its kind no longer affect me as they once, might have done. I'm quite impervious to them, actually._

He laughed when he noticed her look of defeat. _Oh, come now, Miss Darling, don't be disheartened. I know of the pains you went through, just to afford thyself some time to consider thy plight, and I commiserate with thee, truly I do. But then, it also stands to reason that you must accept the fact that you cannot escape from me._ He moved closer to her, that horrid visage causing Wendy to shudder. _We shall be together a long time, you and I. You might as well accustom thyself to my presence._

A single tear escaped from one of Wendy's eyes, and she nodded her head in accord. She ignored her tormentor's look of triumph, though she felt his victory all the same. She nearly breathed out a sigh of relief when she felt the hook depart from her mouth, only to find it resting at her side. "Captain?" she questioned, believing he had now granted her permission to speak. She caught a questioning black eyebrow raise in her direction. Encouraged by the gesture, she compelled herself to continue. "What are we to do?" she asked, flushing timidly."What I mean to say is, where do we go from now?"

He gave her a thoughtful look. _Now?_ he reiterated. _We shall go on as before, although I do trust that silliness in your locking yourself away in your mother's parlour is well and truly over. I should hate to reveal myself to the rest of thy family, simply to learn of thy whereabouts._

Disbelief flooded Wendy's eyes. "You wouldn't dare," she muttered coldly, angered when she saw a flicker of amusement dance in those hollow forget-me-nots.

He leaned down, his face barely a fraction of an inch away from hers, their lips almost touching. Wendy gasped, fearful of his intent, and Hook laughed. _Never dare me,_ he whispered into her hair, before claiming her lips for his own. He ignored her muffled cries, fought off her flailing advances, his mouth forcing hers open as he searched every inch of it with his, robbing it of its warmth, plundering it. He saw a faint glimmer at the right-hand corner of her mouth, and moved in to claim whatever lay there.

It was then that he felt her bite him.

 _You ungrateful wench!_ he cried out, before shoving her away. _You bit me!_

Wendy scowled at him, her pounding heart thrumming in tune with her laboured breathing. "And I shall gladly do so again, should you try to kiss me again, you wretched man! I will not be kissed by some detestable, shameless pirate. God only knows how many women you've kissed and shamed in such a way, though it was probably a precious few, considering how repulsive your conduct is."

Hook returned her scowl in kind. _A thousand, more like,_ he spat, glaring at her shapely figure, that wild dark hair as luxurious and as dangerous as a siren's call. Her untamed look made him hesitate in his retort, his anger fading however slightly.

He would have to be blind not to see the woman Wendy had become, her beauty as compelling as some of the most influential courtesans he'd bedded. But her defiance...angered him beyond imagination. _You're rather poor in your estimation of my abilities to charm the fairer sex, Miss Darling—all of whom enjoyed what I offered them,_ he said, after a long moment. _I've had well over a hundred lovers, I assure you; and every single one of them were willing enough, but you..._

"You think of yourself too highly, Captain," returned Wendy coldly. "I can assure you that I would never fall under your charms; I would have to be out of my mind to ever entertain the thought of finding myself drawn to a pretentious, decomposing despot like you." She cried out when he grasped her arm, and forced her against him once more. "Captain, please!"

But Hook ignored her cries as he pressed one of her shaking hands against his chest, to where a heart once beat. A hint of red filtered into his filmy eyes. _Dost thee feel anything?_ he enquired darkly, and Wendy shook her head. _I thought not. I haven't felt my own heartbeat in seven years, Wendy. And do you know who condemned me to such a fate? Yes, 'twas thee, and thy brothers, and that bastard-born Pan. All of you did this to me. I've had to endure this loathsome existence, forbidden an eternal rest, since I'm forced to walk the earth forevermore. And dost think I actually enjoy looking like a corpse?_ he demanded, shaking her. _Answer me, damn you!_

"No," replied Wendy brokenly, and she sobbed against his chest, her own heart beating for the both of them. She felt his hand rest against her cheek, and she looked up to gaze into the haunted eyes of Captain James Hook...and almost wept.

Never before had she seen such pain in a single human being, that lifeless stare bordering on hopelessness. She breathed in a silent breath, and one of her hands rose to touch his face, mimicking the alluring feel his hand radiated against hers.

She whispered his captain's title when she saw him close his eyes, certain that he welcomed her curious touch; for although he unnerved her with his ghastly appearance, touching him was quite different, the cold, rotting flesh oddly soft and yielding against her fingertips. She heard a groan—which sounded strangely like her name—rumble in the back of his throat, could feel the tension her close proximity exerted on him. It echoed what she felt in the pit of her stomach, her heart racing when she felt him drawn her near, the curvature of his hook encompassing her other hand. She felt a million butterflies flutter in her stomach at the sensation the cold metal educed, and she faintly wondered what it would be like for him to kiss her again...before becoming ill at the thought.

She wanted to deny this newfound revelation, wanted to deny the feelings he inspired in her. For how could one who was assuredly dead make her feel so alive? She was not supposed to feel anything toward him but revulsion. And now, dear God, what had he done? His presence, as well as the very semblance of his touch, both intrigued and frightened her. She was still haunted by his kiss—or whatever it had been, since she still felt her hidden kiss at the corner of her mouth. He hadn't taken it, but nor has she given it to him. She hadn't even given it to Peter, although, at one time, she believed that she had.

Strangely enough, after saving Peter, Wendy hadn't felt any different than before she had kissed him; he had been the one who had changed. The kiss had remained, secretly tucked away, until she'd almost forgotten its existence completely. Only now, when she'd forced into a kiss, did she now remember it and its hidden power. For if she were to give Hook her hidden kiss...

She doubted it would absolve anything, although it would certainly be a sacrifice on her part. But was she willing to give up that last token she had to remind her of Peter and her childhood? The thought of doing so, conflicted her terribly, even though the pull of what her sacrifice could issue tempted her, no matter the loss of her remaining childhood innocence. Peter no longer mattered; it had been years since she had last seen him. He had doubtlessly forgotten about her. She frowned at the reality, and she closed her eyes, feeling the presence of her enemy—the one who should have forgotten her, but didn't—surround her.

He tore away at her resolve, flooding her mind with limitless possibilities—dark imaginings in which she'd never before dared dream—as what he offered her was of a more sinister nature, certainly. And to her everlasting shame, she was drawn to it—darkly so. She allowed him to say her given name, forgoing all formality, permitting him to run those withdrawn fingers through her hair, encouraging his close proximity when he pulled her fully against him, their bodies, living and dead, connecting, intertwining like a pair Klimtonian lovers. She sighed when she felt his fingers draw against the column of her throat, memorising that most beguiling sensation as the darkness enshrouded them from the rest of her conscious existence.

And Wendy, in spite of her better judgment, revelled in it. She barely heard him whisper his forbiddance in her attending church, just as she was no longer allowed to hide from him. She said nothing in response, however, knowing that she would feel differently about his demands in the morning.

Though right now...

Nothing mattered at that moment. Nothing. Save for only their momentary truce, built upon an unsteady foundation of a kiss that he had stolen from her.

For only tonight, Wendy allowed herself not to see the dark villain who tormented her, but a man whose cold touch burned the very core of her being, rendering it to ash. She imagined him the way he had been before his descent into the crocodile's gullet, those harrowing white features and piercing blue eyes like cold fire, dark and smouldering...before he sent her to her death by the end of his hook...

She wanted to faint.

Her reflection had been correct in its foresight, when it confirmed Wendy's attraction to Hook; she now imagined him as when she had first seen him, on the Black Castle's battlements, his dark-blue attire far more becoming than the crimson garbs that had become his death shroud. She imagined him when he had turned away as a stray bolt of lightning struck in the distance, revealing her hiding place. She had been terrified that he would find her then, and claim her as his prisoner. She then imagined him when he was with her on the deck of the Jolly Roger, holding her, his hook perilously drawing close to her face when he demanded the answer to the downfall of his adversary.

Wendy almost shuddered at how close he had been to her, whereas the strange sensation he presently made her feel had greatly intensified, to what he had made her feel so long ago—a repercussion of the power he so inherently emanated, though her present feelings had transcended above her former, girlish confusion, as Wendy realised, if belatedly, the young woman she had become—a woman of feeling—and she sighed in resignation. Her childlike self was no more, since only a woman now stood in her place—a woman, who innocently fancied the Captain's company, just as he, apparently, wanted hers. The kiss he bestowed upon her forehead was confirmation of that want, just as the touch he exerted upon her bared throat reinforced his claim on her. It was enough to make Wendy cry out and yet hold him close at the same time. Captain Hook had affected her in ways she could not understand, certainly more than any of her previous suitors, and she feared it.

Nevertheless, she said nothing to him regarding her present fears, not even when she heard him ask what dismayed her. She said nothing when he tilted her face toward his, where he again claimed her mouth for his own. She closed her eyes at the feel of those cold, dead lips lingering where her hidden kiss rested, shutting her mind away from the guilt she would carry in the morning. She allowed herself to feel nothing, save only the passion he poured into that possessive kiss—a kiss that she secretly welcomed—as it seemed to last an eternity.

She allowed him to claim the entirety of her mouth, though she never relinquished her hidden kiss, let alone her innermost box; her childish heart wouldn't allow it, although the adult part of her cried for their liberation. For in her momentary madness, Wendy was willing to give in to his devilish persuasion. She almost succumbed to him completely, when he placed a few of the forget-me-nots she held in her hair and deemed her an empress among storytellers.

It was a lie, of course; Wendy had not expected any less from him.

And yet, to her own, lasting perplexity, she found herself in tears when she awoke and discovered herself alone in the drawing room, the grandfather clock chiming away the early hour of six. She vaguely heard Liza in the kitchen, mumbling about how Nana had awakened her by barking in the hall upstairs. Wendy only sighed, already knowing the cause of Nana's odd behaviour. Undoubtedly, he was already expecting her.

She shook her head and wiped away the remainder of her tears as she prepared herself for her elusive adversary, her mind still reeling from the hypnotic poison of his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice feedback is very much appreciated, of course. :)


	5. I: A Sweet Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy realizes some things...

If Wendy had a halfpenny for every second she'd spent simply breathing, she'd be a very rich young woman indeed. For it was this simple action in and of itself, perhaps, that condemned her ultimately. As living, it seemed, was what she knew best, even if such had been only a tenth of what everyone one else in London—if not in every known corner of the world—did. It was the natural thing to do, of course. Living. Breathing. Laughing. Flying. Growing up. Dreaming. Dying.

She gave pause in that long precession of thought, particularly the last in line, and silently shook her head.

The lattermost had been almost as foreign to her as the Neverland itself, with its exotic dark fruits and lavish white sands, had once been.

But no more.

To her regret, she had become quite acquainted with the concept—intimately so—as the past week seemed like an eternity, each nightmarish day bleeding into the next until time itself had come to a standstill with only moments of a fitful night's rest to count it. Even the taste of tea and cake had become nothing but a bitter aftertaste in her mouth; bland and stale and insipid in her remembrance of what had simply been a tasteful pleasure only a week before. Everything now tasted of dust and ash, a funeral pyre's assortment of confectionary delights, for those who traversed along the edge of death and dreams. She instinctively worried the bottom half of her lip between her teeth as she contemplated both, no longer able to differentiate between the two.

A tired sigh escaped from her, and she leaned her solemn brow against her bedroom window in silent resignation. She had committed herself to the same routine in as many days, almost beginning to fear that such was becoming a customary habit. And yet, in spite of her lingering self-imposed censure, she still looked beyond the casement, not really seeing anything, save for her own disillusionment, since the sun would not remain in the sky forever. Night would soon descend, along with the nightmare as it returned in full.

He'd tormented her for a week, with his constant persistence in reminding her of his presence. The reality of it had become a harrowing truth indeed, and she almost cursed her ill-begotten luck in telling him stories, knowing well enough that her aptitude was the cause for rousing a spirit, long believed dead and buried in a watery grave. It was a most sobering thought. For now he had returned, demanding of her more and more as she appeased him with long, annotated recollections of her life—tedious moments, which she thought precious little of—as she, surprisingly, regaled him with more than tales of pirates and flying boys who never had head for time.

She'd grown tired of her nightly ritual; although she had to admit, if only half-heartedly, that those filmy forget-me-not eyes had been as entrancing to her all the same. For with every word she spoke, he firmly insisted that another follow until the morning came and he found himself obliged to part company with her—at least until the following evening, when the process repeated itself.

Wendy had not slept in days as a result, the phantom caresses on her cheek that she felt at times, as well as the latent kisses he'd stolen from her when she was sometimes in the middle of one of her accounts, had drawn heavily upon her conscience, conflicting it, as she felt the simple, yet shocking, gestures too convoluted to be mere appreciation for her endeavours by an insightful Captain Hook. His very manner confused her, her resolve in tatters when he left her, always with a parting kiss on her cheek or forehead and a promise to return when the sun eclipsed the starry, rosy lavender sky at dawn; and, as always, she found herself unwillingly returning the gesture, if only to appease him.

Or so she would have herself to believe.

In dreams, she could do almost anything, and not be held accountable for her actions. The church would accept that, just as those who attended and had a committed view of the same faith, would also feel the same. Wendy had little doubt that some of those in question had far more provocative dreams, compared to her simply appeasing an overly possessive, dead pirate captain.

Having a clear conscience amidst an acquaintance as one as corrupt and moribund as the Captain was almost impossible to retain, as she felt her youth and innocence slowly slipping away. She looked begrudgingly at the street below. Things had indeed been so much _simpler_ when she was younger. Shamefully so. And she found herself longing to return to relive those carefree moments of childhood innocence, if only for a short while.

Growing up had been difficult, though it hadn't been as terrible as she'd once expected it to be. She had to leave the Neverland behind, yes, as flying had become quite difficult for her, and Peter—dear, loving, ever-forgetful Peter—had stopped coming for spring-cleaning time long ago. She shook her head, thinking of his freckled, smiling face and those tumbled golden locks of hair which framed a forever youthful face that defined everything that had been her childhood, and her heart ached for it—even more so than it did for the boy himself, since her heart had reluctantly moved on from such childish hopes.

She had to, after all, for what she felt in _his_ kiss…

Wendy closed her eyes, unable to countenance the enormity of what it was she actually felt. She couldn't even begin to define the sensation when she had felt his mouth—not Peter's, although a part of her, the part that desired the safety her childhood hero provided her, and not the man who offered her nothing but uncertainty—as it would close in around hers, claiming it in full, no matter her many futile attempts in reasoning with her other, more conflicted half. She often found herself setting the whole affair of kissing the Captain aside, closing it in the darkest corner of her mind, to be momentarily forgotten until being jolted again by its everlasting presence.

After all, it had been a moment of weakness, and was one she vowed never to repeat. Her eyes opened in secret determination, though were no less weary from exhaustion. She looked forlornly at her reflection in the window, twin dark half-moons enhancing her natural pallor underneath her midnight eyes. She grimaced at the sight. Her Aunt Millicent would be horrified, if not appalled. For Wendy, who never really cared so terribly much for her appearance, looked as one in a moving picture: of that of a static caricature whose sorrows could never be heard or expressed, forever caught on sepia-toned celluloid without an audience to know her true, inner turmoil. She was but another tragic, pretty face on a photograph, a facsimile of her real self and nothing more.

She looked away from the window and the cold world beyond it. Her maudlin state was getting the better of her, as she found herself once again waxing poetic about her plight.

It was not to be borne.

She refused to let her distress get the better of her—utterly refused to let _him_ control her every waking thought. She would not forfeit her life and end up as he, not since she now understood exactly what hell must be for those severed from the precious cord that had once tethered their tenure on this mortal plane. She understood the implications of such perfectly, having lived in it for over a week now with no respite. A living hell was putting her present condition mildly. For what she felt—was _forced_ to feel—had been nothing short of a torment from which even those of the Inquisition could scarce fathom in their torturous designs. She half-wondered if hell itself was as forthcoming with the torment she'd endured living, and was almost inclined to believe that it was paradise compared to what she'd put up with.

Her placid expression darkened severely at the thought.

Yes, living was what she _did_ , what was _expected_ of her. And yet, the knowledge of being the only thing that kept a barrier between her and a realm she had no wish to visit, let alone one day inhabit, pressed heavily upon her conscience with the tolling of each new hour. She had little doubt that _he_ would come tonight, with his poisonous presence. When the sun ended its reign over London's grey skies, she would be forced to oblige the shadow that pervaded her every waking dream and nightmare with phantom touches and haunting looks from those hollow, dead eyes.

Wendy suppressed a shudder, refusing to recoil in revulsion. No, she would not think of _that_ again. Or the other times he'd tried to…

She muttered an unladylike oath—something, she was sure, he'd imparted on her good nature—as she thought dark things she had no business thinking. She only became penitent after one particular thought, which consisted of a timely pocket watch and an iron maiden, shaped into that of a grinning crocodile.

Yes, dark thoughts had inundated her mind tonight, tempting her greatly to say something she would surely later come to regret, her personal sanctity notwithstanding; for either way she looked at it, she was condemned. She almost laughed at her dilemma and recalled an old adage she'd learned in one of her classes.

_Damned if you do, damned it you don't_.

Damned beyond all measure in her case, certainly.

She'd no hope of redemption, either. Not that she minded, of course—not now, when her last venue of it lay in the hope of what she did tonight. She tried not to think of it, lest he sense her secret intent that she'd luckily kept hidden from him. For in her days apart from him, she'd sought out every text and account that even hinted at a resemblance of her problem. And she'd found more than her share of stories, of ways to prevent unwanted spirits from tormenting the living. Though more importantly, as was in her case, ways in getting rid of the aforementioned interloper. As all her answers, consequently, had lain in the one place he'd barred her from visiting.

It almost embarrassed her to admit that she should have known his reasons in keeping her from attending church—something, she was sure, he rarely frequented even when alive—as his ultimate destruction lay within. She almost smiled at the salvation that awaited her. Almost. For it was a smile tinged with remorse.

But it had to be done, she reminded herself. If she were to regain even a semblance of her life, sending a impulsive shade like Captain James Hook—no matter how charming and oddly pleasant he was to her at times—back from whence he came was her only option in finally being free of him, since it seemed that only God Himself could grant her that kind of freedom, and she would do everything in her power to attain it, even forgoing her mother's dinner party—for today was Thursday, after all—and instead choosing in seeking out the company of the divine.

It was a noble course of action, certainly; and was one, although considered strikingly odd, from even Mrs. Darling's perspective, that emphasised just how much of a lady Wendy Darling had actually become. She had yet to seek her parents' permission, of course, but doubted they would deny her; she was the whole of seventeen now, after all, and who would ever deny her seeking out the company of the world's most benevolent Lord and Saviour? No God-fearing person, that much, as Wendy was assured, was a certainty.

And so she waited, watching as the sun set, as its brilliant autumn oranges and pinks faded into a plethora of darker blues and tantalising violets. Beautiful shades that would've inspired even the most resolute of artists to paint, save only for Wendy, whose words could never frame such in a literary masterpiece, the very sight of it leaving her with breathless unease. The coming night's cold chilled her to the bone. She breathed out in unsteady, quick, short breaths before holding one inside. And then another. One. Two. Three. And then a sigh followed with the closing of her tired eyes. It was time. He was coming. She could feel the very darkness of his presence as it permeated the room before consuming the mirror.

_Wendy Darling..._

She plastered on a fake smile—one, she knew, he would doubtlessly believe—as she opened her eyes and turned to the waiting occupant who greeted her instead of her reflection. "Captain," she said, almost breathlessly, "what a _pleasant_ surprise! I almost believed you wouldn't come."

Hook regarded her greeting with a hint of scepticism, but grinned all the same, a horrid sight, which Wendy forced herself not to flinch away from. _Indeed, Miss Darling,_ he drawled out, the very epitome of polite conversation. _I'm almost injured that you should expect any less from me; for after all, have I not been of good company to thee, dear girl, in these last few evenings? I daresay I've missed thy company greatly today._ He then propped himself up against the mirror's frame, his decomposing expression exuding a touch of genuine concern. _You're shivering, my beauty._ _The air is become increasingly cold, has it not?_ He shook his head; a most curious gesture deriving from a pirate, although Wendy felt herself drawn to him all the same.

The Captain, however, appeared oblivious to her wonder of him, as he continued on in a thoughtful manner. _London has always had such a disreputable reputation for that sort of inconvenience, not taking into account of how frail those of thy sex are. I do hope you're dressing smartly—none of those flimsy nightgowns, I trust? I couldn't stand for it, if you were to fall ill over such a womanly frivolous thing as fashion. I'd be of little help in treating thee, confined as I am in thy looking glass._

Wendy bristled at the subtlety in his suggestion. _I will not free you_ , she thought distractedly, since his words, which had at first pricked at her more feminine sensibilities—questioning her good judgment dressing herself, of all things! _How_ _dare_ _he_?—had been rekindled by his admission of being unable to help her, should she need his aid _physically_. His confession had almost touched her in a way. _Though not enough to free him_ , she decided ultimately. As such, she decided upon another course of action, and changed the subject entirely.

"You know, Captain, I once heard my mother speak of a girl who had a fondness for looking glasses. Indeed, she apparently found an entire world beyond one once," Wendy broke in, thinking of a vague, childhood remembrance on the spot.

The Captain gave her a questioning glance. _Did she indeed_? he returned dubiously, arching a taunting black eyebrow. _Then pray tell, Miss Darling, what kind of world was it this curious girl of circumstance found?_

The Storyteller flushed. "Now you are teasing me, Captain."

_On the contrary_ , he countered. _I'm practically on tenterhooks here. Dost not see that I am barely suppressing my interest?_

Wendy hesitated, a look of reluctance overcoming her present disquiet. "It's more a fairy story than anything, since there really isn't any proof that such a world exists under beyond that which is reflected in a mirror, or in a hole in the ground. Unless, you believe in Jules Verne's account of such," she drolly remarked with a faint smile.

Hook, however, remained unimpressed. _I wouldn't know of this Verne fellow_ , he returned indifferently. _But then, I begin to wonder about your incredulous view of this other world—beyond a looking glass or underground as you claim it is—since I recall that you were once so open to other worlds beyond that of dismal old London. What of the Neverland? Dost no longer believe in it or in the inhabitants therein?_ He did not dare mention the other inhabitants by name—or rather, one particular inhabitant—as Wendy noticed his firm reluctance in speaking of Peter, something of which she would not bring up if she could help it.

"You must forgive me for my scepticism," she instead answered. "Perhaps my growing up has done something to do with my particular way of thinking. But be rest assured, Captain: I still believe in the Neverland, even if my own faculties prevent me from returning there."

The Captain arched a curious eyebrow at this particular revelation. _And what prevents you from returning?_ he enquired, no longer indifferent. _I can't understand what would hold thee back now._

"I cannot fly," she answered simply, while the statement itself struck her as painfully real for the first time. "I'm afraid I've forgotten how."

Hazy forget-me-nots met hers, although no sympathy dwelled within their vacant depths. He expressed nothing regarding her plight: no kind reassurance, no remorse, nothing, save for that blank, penetrating stare. It unsettled Wendy to her very core. For here he was, wholly without feeling, vacuous, dark, and enticing. It took everything within her not to turn away from that penetrating sight, lest she found herself drowning in that unsettling gaze. _A man of feeling_. She had once deemed him as being such, but no more.

There was nothing about Hook that defined him as one who had feelings or any emotions, save for the cold, impotent need for revenge that he so obviously possessed for everything and everyone whom he believed had ever wrong him, particularly toward Wendy herself. There was no genuine concern or interest in her; what he expressed was merely an illusion, a façade, like the dangerous creature she'd encountered in her dreams—a distorted reflection of herself. Wendy inwardly broke underneath the comparison, yet the faux smile remained on her lovely face.

He must be taken care of— _now_ —before she took her leave for a week to stay with Aunt Millicent. He could not accompany her to her aunt's home in Essex, since she greatly doubted that her aunt would be open to a man—albeit one no longer considered part of this world—taking up residence in one of her spare rooms. _Even if it is in a mirror, and he is ever the gentleman in turning away when I undress_ , she considered quietly, completely lost in thought as the Captain regarded her warily.

_Ah, what is going on in that lovely mind of thine, my beauty?_ he enquired, breaking her out of her thoughts. _It appears that thy mind is spirited away by some wild fancy. You haven't had a fairy to steal it away from thee? I daresay I would have a more difficult task in retrieving it than I had in saving thee from that monstrous_ crocodile. He gave her a conspiring wink, those sea-bound eyes glittering brightly in spite of their dullness.

Wendy had the grace to blush. "My mind is still my own, Captain, I assure you. I'd never allow a fairy to meddle with it, especially not one as mischievous and vindictive as Tinker Bell." She made a face. "That fairy had it out for the entire time," she said openly, remembering her first visit to the Neverland. "She certainly made for certain that I was given a _proper_ welcome by the Lost Boys."

Hook frowned at her suggestion of proper. _What did she do to thee?_ he pressed, the bones around his decaying jaw visibly tensing. _Tell me, child, for it was far from proper, if I know anything about the pernicious fairy involved._

She bit the lower half of her lip, and looked down at her lap. She'd said too much. Like always in the Captain's presence, she'd spoke too freely with her words when she should very well be sending him back to oblivion. "It's really nothing of consequence," she confessed. "Believing me some kind of bird, A Wendy bird, the boys shot me with an arrow, thinking it would impress Peter."

_They_ shot _you?_ Hook roared, practically rising from his place in the mirror. _Those damned followers of Pan. How could they mistake thee for some sort of bird?_ He muttered a few positively nasty things about her adopted brothers and Peter, promising sweet revenge in their worst nightmares the moment they fell asleep, and far worse if he were to find that _wretched_ _fairy_.

The Storyteller's dark eyes widened at the display, as he paced about like a caged tiger in the mirror, those torn, crimson folds which enveloped him making him forever bathed in the colour of scarlet. It was a most horrifying sight to countenance; and, for a moment, Wendy could not believe the change in his once-confident demeanour, for the Captain now looked positively terrifying at the sight of her, sitting both placidly and _alive_ before him. Wendy almost feared that he would come through the mirror, summoned or not, if she failed to reassure him of her continued welfare—a possibility she had no wish to even consider.

"I am fine, Captain," she found herself say, though her voice was hollow, strangely no longer her own. "It was simply an honest mistake on the boys' parts, since Tinker Bell deceived them, and I was, really, still so far away in their sights before they recognised what it was they'd shot, and they felt terribly after realising their mistake."

The Captain did not look in the least comforted, though he, if for a small fraction, gave way to her gentle placation. _Still,_ he ground out, _they harmed thee. Ignorance or not, they could have killed thee with one fatal stroke, and thou wouldst be on this side…with me. But then, I now begin to wonder if such would be a terrible thing_. He placed a pensive hand against his side of the mirror, as if trying to touch the side where her face rested.

Wendy inwardly shuddered at the attempt, as well as his suggestion, but held her ground. "I am fine," she reiterated firmly, though perhaps more for her own sense of security. "In fact, I've never felt better, Captain."

Though, that was only partly true.

If she were to be perfectly honest with the Captain, she felt as if the weight of the world was on her narrow shoulders, crushing her beyond the fragmented myth of Atlas. She almost laughed at the irony, half-wondering what Rodin himself would think if he were to carve her in such a position, those hands insightful hands carving out a beaten, broken-down subject whose sins far outweighed his pensive masterpiece of a man forever trapped in thought. He would probably fail upon the initial stroke of his hammer, and what a pity that would be, too, for Wendy would love to be immortalized in sightless stone. At least then she would be given no cause to court a looking glass. But, alas…The only stone she would have for a memorial would be that of her own tomb.

And so, she gave her mouldering companion another fabricated smile and told him the story of Alice and her Wonderland until she was sure she had convinced him of her sincerity and interest in him entirely.

She kept up the façade for another hour, drawing him into an alluring spell as she lured him into a tangled web of adventures that befell a girl who ventured down a rabbit hole and beyond a stately looking glass. She vaguely heard the distant toll of Big Ben, as it struck the hour of six. She paused in her story, if only for a moment, and glanced at the darkening sky. She was running out of time.

Hook seemed to notice this, his genuine interest suddenly shifting into suspicion. _What is the matter, my beauty?_ he questioned. _Why didst thou stop so abruptly?_

Wendy hesitated. "It's nothing, Captain, truly," she quickly reassured him. "It's simply the fact that I just realised how late the hour is, and that I, in being so caught up in helping Mother with the house today, since she now entertains on the third Thursday of every month, that I have yet to…ah…use the necessary, in preparing myself for tomorrow. I am awfully dirty after cleaning out the ash pit." She raised her hands in emphasis, where indeed her hands, though mainly extenuating a delicate pallor, nevertheless revealed a thin layer of soot upon their delicate lengths.

The Captain instantly regained his interest, albeit appearing visibly taken aback by her admission. _I understand thee and thy personal need implicitly_ , he said, drawing himself from his seated position in the mirror. He gave her a mocking bow, grinning as he did so. _Go then, dear girl. Far be it that I prevent a young lady from her daily ablutions. After all, we cannot have thee going about in a state less than what is considered by thy company as pure and clean_.

She inclined her head in agreement, although she secretly shuddered at the way he spoke of her purity and cleanliness. "I must thank you for your understanding," she returned coolly, neutrally, and made to stand, her full height still unable to eclipse his domineering frame. "Until I return?" she posed, a dark eyebrow rising in faux expectation.

She received a grin that promised anything but his gentlemanly concern for her well-being in returning to him. _I shall look forward to thy return._

"Indeed, Captain," she said, mirroring that deceptively alluring smile, a silent promise that Alice and her misadventures through a slanted looking glass would be the last story he would ever hear from her.

…

Leaving promptly from her home, lest her audience upstairs should sense something amiss, Wendy had only the care to quietly inform her mother in a hushed whisper that she would be out, even though Mrs. Darling did everything in her power to dissuade her from leaving home at so late an hour, and even went so far as to keep her in the company of her lady friends. "A good friend of mine from my old school will be here soon," she had said, gazing worriedly at the darkening sky outside the parlour window. "I should like for you to meet her, Wendy, since she is a well-travelled lady and is also quite an accomplished… _writer_."

But Wendy would not be persuaded against putting off "her little errand," as she called it, until another day when one of her brothers could escort her to her destination _safely_ , no matter her private interest in meeting another of her own sex who had accomplished what her Aunt Millicent deemed impossible. "I shall meet her when I return. I shan't be long, Mother," she'd promised, taking care not to be caught in the foyer's mirror as she put on her wool coat and left. She barely noticed her mother's worried expression as she avoided every surface that might cast her reflection.

Though, had she taken true care, she would've had the foresight to have at least covered the bathroom mirror as the presence within her room patiently awaited—or was as patiently as an otherwise impatient ghostly apparition of a pirate captain could be—her return from a most intimate place where one of good form dared not venture.

Wendy's present concern, however, rested not with her beloved home, but before her, as St. George's massive stone edifice came into sight. She dodged a throng of passers-by, wiry street urchins, carriages, her gait shifting into that of a quickened pace as she dodged every wet and muddy obstacle until reaching her destination, almost bereft of breath. Paying little heed to those in passing as she opened the massive doors in an almost solemn show of reverence before entering, she barely noticed the doors close behind her with a deafening slam, her gaze fixed upon the heart of the church, where row after row of vacant seats paralleled the massive emptiness that complimented the void within her own, conflicted self. She almost quaked at the depth of something too profound to describe growing inside of her, but remained guarded amidst her own uncertainties, determined to bring a close to the perverse relationship she had with the demonic entity that dwelled within her mirror. Her countenance darkened in spite of its ivory radiance. One way or another, she was going to exercise that bastard from her endless nightmares, and reclaim her life. One way or another…

Taking a seat, she sat amidst the soft candlelight that a score of candelabras emitted amongst the quietude of the church. Wendy closed her eyes as the silence overtook her, both in spirit and in body, her mind torn between the grave reverence of a power, even greater than she—and the indelicate whispers and caresses that surely awaited her when she returned home. For having the Captain—no, she dare not consider his name, for fear that a simple recollection of it might summon him into this hallow abode; or, at the very least, alert him of her presence here—as he, dear God, had undone everything she'd ever known, her very grasp on the world around her crumbling away into something too macabre and sinister to even consider, much less comprehend. For she knew, deep within herself, that it was wrong to feel what she felt for him, to lust after the dead. And lust, she had, to the point where she imagined things, deep within her own subconscious, which must never be shown the light of day, lest she lose herself and her innocence completely. For it was a thing of golden legend, a fruit that must never be plucked, let alone savoured.

And so, in the hallowed sanctity of the One who could absolve every taint that the monster had visited upon her, Wendy made out a silent plea, unable to do little else as she prayed and begged and silently cried out for the bleeding in her heart to stop. She sat there, her head inclined at an off angle, those sorrowful eyes closed, her wild dark hair eclipsing half of her face in a shadowy veil of repentance. Weeping Jeremiah, clad perpetually in his sackcloth robes, would have almost pitied the sight as Wendy was very near the breaking point.

For how could she go through with this? Was this not what she wanted, what she _needed_ to do, in order to rid herself of him forever, whilst saving her very soul in the process? But then, perhaps he _had_ tainted her. As poisoning as his presence was, she could not deny that she, against her own, better judgment, enjoyed it. He was both maddening and sensational by turns, almost like laudanum, the very taste of what he promised her from those decayed, devious lips saccharine-sweet and addictive to the last, fatal drop. It was a most delectable poison. And was one, she belatedly realised, that would make the angels burn with shame. The fires of hell could not burn so bright, compared to the fire he inspired within her. For burn she did, and a part of her—that darkly foreign and most unknown part of herself—revelled in it.

God help her, but she'd given part of herself to one who, she was sure, was the devil incarnate.

She muttered a prayer she'd known since childhood, a mindless litany with a meaning she now barely comprehended in her adult years, her closed eyes brimming with unshed tears. Would God Himself take mercy upon her, and save the tattered strands of what remained of her sanity? She could only hope for such an impossible expression of leniency from One so perfect.

And yet, as she cast herself before such indomitable mercy, someone—albeit not a heavily apparition, by any means—came, touching her shoulder in a tender show of concern. Upon feeling the sensation and the presence of another, Wendy shifted upward, her dark eyes meeting a pair of kind green. A shadow of a smile softened her drawn features as she took in the sight of a young man, maybe a few years older than she.

It took her a moment to realize where she was and why she was there in the first place as she made to compose herself. "My apologies, sir, I—I didn't mean to cause a scene," she murmured, stumbling over her words.

But the young man, who was undoubtedly part of the church, judging by his curate's attire, contested, "And you haven't," he assured her. "Quite the contrary, considering that I would think otherwise if you had come here with anything but a need to seek solace from whatever it is that you troubles you."

Wendy smiled gratefully, half-admiring his infectious smile and dancing green eyes. His wavy, reddish-gold hair seemed to almost illuminate that of an imaginary halo from the surrounding candlelight. She gave him a smile of her own, as the storyteller in her half-wanted to believe him some sort of guardian angel which had taken the form of a mortal man, but quickly dismissed the thought as soon as it had manifested. Such beauty surely did not have to be reserved for God's heavenly creatures alone. She flushed at the thought, although the slight, subtle attraction remained as she, if only secretly, admired her unexpected companion for his kindness and the spark of life—not death—that he so richly emanated.

For he seemed to have taken an interest in her as well, as he suddenly corrected his laxity and made to introduce himself. "I humbly ask your pardon, but allow me to introduce myself," he said by way of apology, before breathing out in a very long, heavy breath: "I am John Quincey Arthur Van Helsing Harker, but, please, call me Arthur."

Wendy's eyes widened at the heavy onslaught he'd uttered; he outmatched her in her namesake, certainly, and she found herself truly impressed that he hadn't at all been weighted down by it. "A curate-in-training, you say?" she echoed questionably, but then nodded her head, as she extended her hand in a bold, very unladylike fashion, to which he just as daringly accepted. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harker, and since we're dispensing with all of our names, I'm Wendy Moira Angela Darling, but do, please, call me Wendy." Her heart nearly fluttered when he gave her another of his endearing smiles.

"A pleasure," he returned, truly meaning it. "But, please, I ask again that you call me Arthur."

"Arthur," she duly repeated, having the grace to blush as she shyly ducked her head under his appreciative gaze. There was little doubt in Wendy's mind that this Mr. Arthur Harker was indeed a very handsome and charming man. _Although he isn't nearly as charming as that devil in my mirror_ , she thought distractedly, the sudden thought of the Captain ruining the tender moment with her newfound companion as her present dilemma returned like a nightmare out of a storm.

The young curate must've sensed Wendy's abrupt change in mood as his concern for her returned. "I understand that there is a reason for why you're here, Wendy. And although I've no wish to pry, I want you to know that I'm more than willing to help you in any way that I can."

"That is very kind of you," Wendy returned, a small smile breaking through the sadness in her dark eyes. "You must be very accustomed to this kind of thing from parishioners."

Arthur gave her an unconventional shrug. "My Great-Great-Grandfather Ferrars was once a curate in Devonshire, as have been most of those who followed him, except my father, who is still a very devout man. Whatever blessing of patience and understanding I have, I have mercifully inherited from him, Miss Darling." He inclined his head, a comforting hand moving to rest over hers. "I enjoy this line of work, since I feel that the world is on the verge of being plunged into something even darker than war."

Wendy felt a jolt of something—she could scarcely begin to define what it was, exactly—surge through her at his very touch, whilst sensations—comprised in heavy tones of both black and white—of another doing the same blotted across her mind's eye. Gasping at the comparison, she removed her hand from his, vaguely hearing a stuttered apology as she made to stand. "You've no need to apologise," she said, pulling into her black wool coat. "I've overstayed my welcome here, anyhow." She took a few steps before turning toward the young curate, a strange look in her eyes. "You said I came here to seek solace, and the church—our Lord and Saviour—provides that, correct?" When she saw him incline his head in assent, she continued. "Well, then, if that is the case, and if I were to at least consult the matter that is troubling me, would the church have a sufficient answer?"

Recovering himself by her earlier dismissal, Arthur gingerly came to stand by her side, keeping a suitable distance between them. "I pray that it would, Miss Darling," he returned formally, no longer feeling welcome to address her by her given name. "If not, then I am sure that prayer to our Lord and Saviour will absolve that which by mortal means alone cannot answer."

A moment of silence passed between them as Wendy seemed to accept his answer. "Very well," she conceded softly. "Then what if I were to ask you a question regarding something, not necessarily of a spiritual nature, but one pertaining to the supernatural?" When she noticed his perplexed expression she rephrased her question. "I'm sorry for being so vague about this. I suppose I should just come out and say it: How does a person dispel one recently returned from the dead, whose sole purpose is to haunt that most unfortunate sinner, who somehow wronged him in life?"

"I…I'm afraid I don't understand," he replied, stumbling over his own, obvious confusion. "Are you saying that one from beyond the grave is haunting you? God in heaven, this is serious; you should honestly speak with the rector about this." He made to escort her out of the main foyer, to his superior's quarters, but then withdrew the offer when he saw her tersely shake her head.

"You misunderstand. I merely asked if the church has a remedy for such things," Wendy said firmly, her dark eyes countering his. "I've no wish to discuss anything more than that, especially with someone who would only care to inform my parents of just how mad their daughter really is. I…wish to keep this matter in the strictest of confidence, you understand."

"And it will be a matter that shall remain simply between us, of course," answered Arthur, inclining his head in understanding. "I shall adhere to your wishes, Miss Darling, although I do wish you would consider speaking to someone who is more knowledgeable about this. However, the only thing I can advise, other than prayer, to purge the horrendous thing as that which is troubling you, is one other option,"—Here he made to excuse himself from her company for a few minutes before returning with a solemn expression on his handsome face, a slender glass vial held securely in his right hand—"as I believe this may be all that you need to dispel that which is haunting you," he said, handing her the vial.

Wendy accepted it without hesitation, although she looked at it questionably. "What is it?"

"It's holy water, blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. A good friend of the family gave it to me, should I ever have any need of it," he said simply, offering her a shy, half-smile. "It should be all you need."

"Thank you." Wendy didn't so much as say the words as much as her gratitude was expressed in her actions alone. Disregarding a slight sense hesitation on her part, she took one of his hands and placed both of hers over it, a tender gesture of gratitude, for the gift he'd given a complete and utter stranger. She squeezed his hand and offered him a parting smile before making her way out of the church and back into the cold London streets, although with newfound determination. He said nothing in return, only mirrored her previous gesture, when his hand shifted and clasped hers, the sensation his touch inspired leaving Wendy almost breathless. She had no words to describe what it was that she felt, but that it was pleasant and comforting and somehow…warm. She was almost reluctant to lose it in the cold London night air yet knowing she must.

Carefully placing the vial into the satin linings of her coat, she flashed Arthur another smile before turning away. She failed to notice her new acquaintance's genuine look of concern, suffused with an emotion akin to admiration, when she departed from his side at the threshold of St. George's as the night's darkness enveloped her like a cloak, obscuring her from his sight as another observed her from the reflective shadows from a nearby window of a bakery, a dark, insidious look overshadowing the glare in those ghostly, hollow eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice feedback is very much appreciated, of course... :)


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